Endless Stories
by spiritussalis
Summary: A collection of prompts that I filled out from my Tumblr. Mostly Nordics, with varying themes. Will be updated often. Send me an ask on my Tumblr (spiritussalis) for any prompts you would like to see.
1. Barely even a kiss

**DenNor.**

 **Magnus=Denmark.**

 **Sindre=Norway.**

 **Eírikur=Iceland.**

 **Prompt: "That was barely even a kiss! Do it again, please?"**

Oh, gods. He was never drinking again.

It is why he is currently waiting on the sidewalk outside of a club, tears streaming down his face as embarrassment eats him alive at the thought of how much he had screwed up. As much as he hated the crowds, he is thankful for the anonymity it provides; nobody had bothered to ask if he was okay, if anyone had even noticed.

He hates that he had to ask his younger brother, Eírikur, for help. But there was no one else he knew who would forgive him for calling at two in the morning for a ride. Besides, it was technically his car; Eírikur was twenty-three and still lived with him while he attended college. He owed him this, at least.

All this because he had too much to drink, and he finally kissed-if you can call it a kiss-his crush, Magnus. Who happened to be his best friend, a fact that complicated things.

It had been spontaneous, an act that didn't suit him. Hell, he had managed to hide his feelings for him for the past two years, finding it easier to cling on to their friendship than risk it. Afraid of the rejection. Losing his friendship. Embarrassing himself. Too many unnamed scenarios that he played out in his mind, whenever he even entertained the thought of asking him out.

All of his fears, come undone in one night by a couple of shots. He didn't even remember what Magnus had said, just that he had thought it was unbelievably cute, and the way hid mouth ticked up at the corner in a smirk...

It had been too easy to reach up and kiss him. Granted, he was already dizzy from the heat of the crowded room, slightly tipsy, and he thinks he remembers it actually landing on the corner of his mouth in his haste, rather than a full kiss. But his intent had been clear enough, and he hadn't bothered to stick around for the reaction.

Either way, he really, really hated Tino for convincing him to come to his anniversary celebration with his husband, Berwald. Inexplicably celebrated with drinking at a club that was more geared towards college students looking for fun, rather than gay men who were almost in their thirties, although it was safe to assume it was just for the drinking. They were relentlessly dedicated to each other. But the clubbing was something he could hardly reconcile with the other side of Tino he knew; the soft-spoken Finnish man who bakes for fun, cleans like a domestic goddess, and coaches the hell out of his son's soccer team.

Why couldn't they have just picked a restaurant like normal people? He winces, at he considers how much better this could have gone. If he had just stayed home, like usual.

"Hey, wait!"

Sindre stiffens at the familiar voice, and he hurriedly wipes away his tears as he turns to face Magnus as he exits the club's doors, dodging the throngs of people and making his way to him. Mentally, he tries to prepare himself for what he might say. It can't be anything pleasant.

Sindre takes a deep breath, in an attempt to stifle any hiccups-an embarrassing habit he has when he cries-and avoid making this any worse, although his voices still comes out breathy and fast.

"Look, I'm so, so sorry for doing that, it was stupid of me and I won't ever-"

He stops when Magnus holds up his hand, signaling him to stop talking. He obliges, although he dreads what he might say.

"Wait, wait. You lost me for a second. What are you sorry for?"

Sindre stares down at the ground, finding it a safe medium-away from his stare-that he wishes he could sink through and disappear.

"Kissing you. Or trying to."

Magnus narrows his eyes, as confusion crosses his face, until it dawns on him, and a knowing smile turns his lips.

"You think I'm mad, or something?"

Sindre huffs, in exasperation. "I don't know! What am I supposed to think? Are you?"

"Well, I'm not. I was just surprised, is all." Magnus looks at him, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh... Liked it. You don't have to be sorry. That's why I came out here to see you."

"You... What?" Sindre has to ask himself if he had heard it correctly, or if it was just alcohol and wishful thinking affecting his hearing.

"I liked it." Even in the dim lighting from the front of the club, Sindre can see the flush lighting up his face. "I like you."

"You... do? Like me?" He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry, at the thought of how much useless stress he had given himself, over this.

Magnus nods, solemnly. "There was just one thing."

Sindre eyes him warily, weary of it. What else had he done wrong?

"What was it?"

"That was barely even a kiss! Do it again, please?"

"You want to kiss me? After that?"

"I just said so, didn't I?"

"Idiot." Truthfully, he is one. But Sindre still smiles. He knows he looks terrible from crying, and drinking, and he still wants to kiss him?

He can't resist, his heart beating wildly, as he pulls him in for a real kiss, one that he deserves.


	2. Popcorn

**SuFin.**

 **Prompt: "What? No. I wasn't reaching for your hand. I was, uh-reaching for the popcorn."**

"Tino? You okay?"

"I'm fine, I just cry easily, okay?" Tino sniffles, grabbing a tissue to dab away his many tears as he meets the slightly concerned gaze of his boyfriend, Berwald. "This movie is just so sad."

Berwald's concern isn't unexpected. Tino doesn't flinch behind the force of a Mosin Nagant. He can hold his vodka well. He hikes in his free time. Simply, he doesn't fit the stereotype of a romantic.

But he is a sucker for romantic movies. He will cry. Review them. Cherish them. Binge them. As evidenced by the number of tissues he's gone through already.

Besides, they haven't had the chance to truly sit down and enjoy each other's company like this, thus Berwald hadn't quite had the chance to see his romantic notions in action. Berwald's young son, Peter, had to be watched. They eventually settled on him spending the night at Berwald's brother's house. Before that, Tino had actually offered to babysit him, for their own date night where they wanted to be together. He was used to watching him while he worked, or ran errands, and the offer had simply slipped out. A mortifying mistake, at best.

But he will gladly be a dork if it makes Berwald laugh as loud as he did, a sound that warmed his heart as he slowly melted away the boundaries around the shy, stoic man.

Absentmindedly, he smiles at his little dog, Hana, who is currently curled up on Berwald's lap instead of her usual place on his own lap, the little traitor. A cute traitor. Yet it was sweet to see her take to Berwald from the start; Hana liked everybody, but she formed special bonds with certain people. Apparently, Berwald was one of them. The popcorn that he kept slyly giving to her when he assumed that Tino wasn't looking, certainly helped.

As the screen flickers to the emotionally-charged reunion at the ending, he automatically reaches for the bowl of popcorn, without taking his eyes off of the screen.

Instead, he accidentally grabs his calloused hand. He's not sure where they are physically. Berwald has only kissed him on the cheek so far, in six months of dating, and he can sense he feels awkward about it.

"Sorry, sorry," Tino mumbles, pulling his hand away.

"Tino?" Berwald says, and Tino is glad to hear his name clearly. When he had first met Berwald, his shyness had been crippling, and he could hardly get a full sentence out without mumbling.

"Yes?"

"You can hold my hand." Almost shyly, he adds, "If you want."

"What? No. I wasn't aiming for your hand. I was, uh-reaching for the popcorn." Tino would love to hold hands, but he wants to make sure it is okay with him. Honestly, he would be okay with waiting for him to make the first move. He doesn't want to pressure him, even by accident.

But Berwald gives him a knowing look, and his resolve immediately withers.

"Well, it would be nice… But only if you're sure."

"I am. Didn't want to ship Peter off for nothin'." He jokes, and Tino can't help but laugh.

Tino smiles gently, while wrapping his arms around Berwald's chest and leaning against him, grabbing his hand with both of his, eliciting a small, unusual smile, rare even for him to see.

He would love to see it more.

"Let's watch another one."


	3. At home

**DenNor.**

 **Prompt: "Whenever we're together, I feel at home."**

It isn't kind, he knows. To be like this. To think like this, about someone who would give the world to him, a thought that terrifies him.

But sometimes, Sindre likes Magnus better when he isn't joking, or laughing, or hiding what he feels behind a mask that is painted on with a false grin. When he is allowed to see the side of him that belongs to no one else. In all the small ways that only he can know, and understand.

It's too easy, terribly easy, to think like this. Sindre hates himself for letting it get to this point, wishing that he could turn back time and do everything differently, wishes that are wasted in their impossibility

Yet at the same time, he still feels safer this way, lying together under the sheets. When there is no talk, of the future, or the past, or what they are. Who they are. When there isn't anything to bother them, besides the few rays of gentle sunlight, weak and diluted, peeking through the curtains in a gentle reminder that they should leave, to their own lives. Remarkably separate, for how long they've known each other.

Different homes, different beds. Although he shares Magnus's bed frequently, but only for the night, before he had to go home to his own.

Things that could have changed, years ago, into one home, one bed. The way that they should have. He is the one who couldn't change, though. Couldn't make himself say yes to the changes. Say yes to the weight of a ring, which would only weigh him down.

Yet these are the moments, in all their simplicity, that belong to them.

Magnus's voice finally breaks the stillness of early morning, drawing his attention. Sometimes, Sindre catches Magnus watching him in the moments where he is lost in thought, when he had assumed that Magnus was still asleep.

"Are you happy?"

"Of course I am." Sindre gives him a side eyed glance, yet his face refuses to betray a whisper of how he feels. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just… I don't know. You never look happy."

"Do I have to smile constantly, to be happy?"

"No, guess not." Magnus's eyes crinkle, as he remembers all the moments, where he smiled when he really felt like crying.

Sindre almost asks him, in return of the question. If he is happy, with the way they are. If he still wants things to be different.

But he knows that Magnus isn't always happy. That he is still waiting patiently for him, and it would be cruel to ask him to tell the truth, to make him finally say that he isn't happy. But it would be even more cruel to make him lie, and let him say that he is happy.

Whenever _we're together, I feel at home._

The words rise up in Sindre, before they fizzle at the thought. They are true. He loves him, in a way that is so much more than can be contained in a single word. But how can he say them, when he can't show them? It isn't anything wrong with Magnus, that keeps him from speaking the truth. It is the barriers, purposeful and neat. Keeping him out in all the wrong ways.

Sindre knows that their love is a home that can be burned. Torn apart, limb by limb. It can shatter like glass, into tiny fractures that spread like spiderwebs until they finally give in, and he will be the one left to pick up the pieces. Alone. So the words stay locked inside, safely hidden.

When it is safe and Magnus has slipped back into sleep, where he won't hear, he whispers them to himself, with only the air to witness the tears that refuse to come.


	4. Stop! It tickles!

**Nyo!GerIta**

 **Maria=Germany**

 **Feliciana=N. Italy**

 **Prompt: "Stop that! It tickles!"**

"Sit still, Maria."

Feliciana clucks in her soft voice, as her hands tug at Maria's hair. It frightens Maria; how gentle her small hands can be when she's painting, plucking a flower, or petting an animal. But when it came to her hair, Feliciana was not afraid of pulling, yanking, and primping it to perfection.

"But I am sitting still!" Maria protests. "You are too rough."

Feliciana's hands are forceful, tugging her back with each firm yank of the brush as it struggles to work through her course hair.

"So sorry, so sorry." She murmurs as she softens her tugs, and after spraying her hair with something redolent with the heady scent of flowers, she is able to get the brush through. "But it will be worth it when I'm done! Just wait, and see."

Maria doesn't see how it could possibly turn out well. Her own hair is simply course and thick, quite different from Feliciana's hair, which is smooth and flows like silk across her tanned shoulders, as soft as a petal. But she trusts her to do her best, and how could she say no when Feliciana had practically begged to braid her girlfriend's hair before their anniversary date? It didn't help that she had gained a habit of pouting, although it is her own fault, given her tendency to give in to anything cute, a quality that Feliciana exudes.

Maria watches Feliciana in the mirror they're stationed in front of, as she turns to set the brush aside. Working over the messy array of cosmetics that litter her side of the desk, she finally settles on a small glass vial, filled with something that looks like oil. She pours a small amount into her palm, and rubs her hands together.

"Okay, I think it is soft enough now to braid it. This is rose oil, to make it shine, like you."

Maria smiles to herself at the odd comparison, as Feliciana comes back to stand behind her. Her hands work through her hair with the oil, before she begins to braid it. With each deft weave, her fingers brush against the back of Maria's neck, across the sensitive skin. It's embarrassing, but her neck is very sensitive and she is already resisting a giggle.

"Can you stop? That tickles."

"Oh, it tickles?" Feliciana stops the braiding, as a devilish grin crosses her usually sweet face, and Maria collapses in a fit of giggles as Feliciana's hands immediately go for her soft spot; her tummy.

"Stop, stop! I promise to sit still!"

"Too late!" She laughs, finally relenting when Maria's face grows pink from laughter, something she doesn't do often.

Maria shakes her head, still amused.

"Please, we will be late." She has checked the watch she wears, and they only have thirty minutes before their reservation time.

"Sorry, you are just too cute when you laugh! I promise that I will finish it before we are late, for sure."

Feliciana makes quick work of the rest of it, settling on a fast yet skilled pace. Although airy, often unbothered with the rush of time, she works hard when needed.

Feliciana steps back, consulting her work. She beams at her in the mirror, obviously satisfied with her work.

"Done! What do you think?"

Maria has to admit that she's impressed, given the fact that she can barely do more than keep it brushed. It is braided into a single braid, one more suited for her than one of Feliciana's more elaborate styles, and it is impossibly smooth, with no more than a few hairs out of place. And she enjoys how she looks when it is pulled back, exposing her strong jawline. An uncertain hand reaches up to touch it gently, afraid of ruining it.

"Beautiful," Feliciana whispers as she presses a soft kiss to her cheek, and when a soft smile turns Maria's lips, she is reminded of how much she loves her.


	5. Only for you

**DenNor.**

 **Prompt: "Can't you just be nice to them, for once?" "Can't, I only save that for you."**

In hindsight, Magnus knows that it was a bad idea to pick a fight with the Swede, a man whose calm, stoic demeanor belied a strength that still made him wince as he recalled the fight, ignited by a few sharp, incindiary words and culminating in him losing consciousness after Berwald bashed his head against a tree.

The man also had a tongue that was loosened by drink, evidenced by the way that he had unabashedly taunted him, leading to a fight in the first place.

It turned out that drinking with him in some misguided attempt to mend their friendship was a bad idea.

Sindre had wasted no time in reminding him of just how bad his ideas usually are, as his light, gentle fingers cleaned his wounds with a cloth, bandaging them with a practiced touch that came from cleaning up after his many mistakes. There were more bruises than anything else, although he had broken the skin in a few areas, and the pounding in his head had yet to cease.

Of course, Magnus had managed to get a few good licks in-he dully remembers the crunch of the man's nose against his fist, possibly breaking it-and he was, undoubtedly having his wounds tended to by his own lover, a hidden trait they both shared.

They are alike in many ways, yet every time he crossed paths with him, it led them both astray.

His hands clench and unclench as he recalls the vicious words, thrown at him like they were truth, and he aches for him to show his face again soon.

It doesn't escape the Norwegian, and he sets the wash cloth he had been using aside.

"Is there a reason behind your stupidity?"

"Well, he did bash my head against a tree. Might have a few memory problems now."

Sindre rolls his eyes. "I meant, what gives him so much power over you, to set you off with mere words?"

Magnus sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ease the pounding in his head with a hand that still felt shaky from misuse.

"I don't know. Just lyin'. About you."

"My honor is not yours to defend." Yet Sindre's curiosity is peaked, and he regards him with curiosity.

"What did he say?"

"Accused you of being a witch."

Sindre frowns at him, snapping his fingers and producing a small, green flame that still mesmerized him in all its simple yet magnificent implications, although it's a mere show of his magic; he could do much worse, or better, depending on the perspective.

"It's the truth. Although I wouldn't say that I am a witch."

"But it's dangerous. Never know who is listening."

Sindre scoffs. "In the middle of the forest? It was a fairy who came to find me, remember?"

Magnus groans. "Now you're just showing off. You know I can't see them."

"Still. You should be more careful."

"He started it!"

Sindre gives him a sharp glance at the hopelessly childish words.

"Can't you just be nice to him, for once?"

"Can't. I only save it for you."

Sindre shakes his head, yet he can't help but smile.

"Oh? And your kindness is such a shallow well, to only be enough for one person? Tsk. How petty."

"Well, that one person is more than enough," Magnus murmurs against his skin as he pulls him into a kiss, and Sindre can't help but forgive him.


	6. All That I Have

**Denmark, references to DenNor and SuFin.**

 **Prompt: All that I have.**

 **Note: This is written in first person.**

All that I have, is us.

It still rings true, even now that they are gone. Without them, I am nothing. They were all that I had, and they are all that I have now, in fragmented memories that can never be made whole again.

At first, it had felt too good to be true. Too unreal to be more than a dream, tempting in all of its sweetness.

But we had found each other, one by one. First, the Swede. The Norwegian. The Finn. Then the child.

One, cold and proud, stronger than the Northern wind. Norway.

One, whose heart was bound by stone, stone that could crumble under the soft gaze and gentle touch of the kind one who called me Tanska. Sweden. Finland.

One, who trusted me the most, in the way that only a child can trust. Iceland.

We promised. That we would stay together. That we would be brothers, always; a word that we did not understand, though it still sent joy racing through our hearts. Two bound through blood, yet all bound through the weight of a promise, one that should have lasted.

Even then, it was terrifying to think of the implications of it.

For all that it was, for all that it made me, what would I be without it?

Without them?

Yet it was still a welcome change, a blessed relief to what had come before; a stretch of time, endless and impersonal. Cold. A name was laid upon me, one that burned in the very soul of both kings and commoners, warriors and cowards, raised in fierce shouts that can still wrought painful pride in my heart.

 _Denmark._

It was all that bound me, made me; a name that ignited a passion tinged with the sickly iron of blood.

It still didn't burn as hotly as the other name, hopelessly, falsely bearing the mark of humanity, whispered on the lips of the one who was called Norway, although I held his own name close.

Yet for all we had, those who live by the sword, shall die by the sword. And die we did. In our hearts, and in our minds. Even the strongest love, or loyalty, can be drowned in the blood that we all shed in the name of staying together, of falling apart. Through countless wars and treaties, which only delayed the inevitable, bitter end.

The Union was promised to us, as much as we had promised it to ourselves, and we had falsely believed that it would keep us together. By words scrawled in ink that could be washed away, on parchment that could be burned, by kings who were no more than men. And we believed those words, meaningless and false. Just as much as we believed our own lies.

It was promised to us, yet it was left all to myself, in tattered remains clutched in unsteady hands which still don't believe what they have done.

One by one, their names flow through my mind, whispers in the dark that refuse to linger like the cold one's gentle kisses against my skin, and his name still stings the most.

One, by one, until they are gone, blurred behind the haze of liquor.

All that I have, is the taste of blood and regret burning my veins, my mind, my soul.


	7. Under the Rain

**HunBela.**

 **Prompt: Under the rain.**

The light patter of rain against the roof had never sounded so cleansing, so pleasant, to Natalya than when she was lying in Erzsebet's arms. Yet rain had always soothed her, conjuring up pleasant memories, smooth sailing, more than the sunshine ever could.

Their first kiss had been under the rain; The rain had started gently, then falling all at once in a sudden downpour. They had both been caught without an umbrella, leaving them both soaked. Erzsebet had leaned forward to brush the damp hair from Natalya's face, and it had been terrifyingly easy to let her hands linger, their gaze unbroken, and press a gentle kiss to her lips, one that was returned earnestly in a way that answered all of her unspoken questions about how they felt.

Their wedding, a simple ceremony that was held in a beautiful clearing as the first tidings of spring had rolled in, had been rained out. They would always remember this, when they recalled the events of that day. Natalya would recall the way that Erzsi had insisted on continuing with the ceremony, the rain be damned. Even as mascara ran down her face, ruined. Erzsebet could only remember how beautiful Natalya was, and how it felt to kiss her for the first time as her wife.

Even now, new memories are being created. Erzsebet's hands, gently threading through her long hair, then running down her bare back in lazy circles, send sparks racing up her spine at the warmness of her touch, in contrast to the cool metal of her wedding ring. It is a simple band, inscribed with 'I love you', first in Hungarian, then Belarusian.

The sound of rain is just as sweet as the way she pulls her in for a sleepy kiss.


	8. Is that mine?

**DenNor.**

 **Prompt: "Is that my shirt?" "Um, kinda..."**

Magnus was going to have to work on his aim.

Sindre groans as he drags his sopping wet shirt, now ruined, from his boyfriend's fish tank, deeply regretting the way that he had let Magnus haphazardly undress him last night, and regretting that he had worn one of his nicest shirts, a pale lavender that was his favorite. But it had been their two-year anniversary, and it had seemed-at the time-worth putting effort into looking nice.

Really, he didn't even know why Magnus owned a fish, nor why he kept it in a tank on his desk, rather than somewhere more visible. But it had served its purpose; his shirt was done for.

He still couldn't find his pants, he had recovered only one shoe, and he already knew that his socks were a lost cause. At least he had found his boxers.

Fuck this. He needs coffee.

After digging around in his closet, he manages to find an old dress shirt hanging in the back, vaguely recalling that it was something Magnus had worn in high school-who knows why Magnus hadn't thrown it out yet-but it was at least a size or two smaller than his newer shirts, and it fit better. He wasn't going to bother with the pants, already knowing that none of them would fit, too long and wide in the legs to look anything but ridiculous on him.

Ignoring the chill of the air against his bare legs, he makes his way down the hall, and into to the kitchen, knowing that Magnus would already be in there. Self-consciously tugging the hemline of the shirt down, and ignoring the double-take Magnus gave him at the sight, he goes straight for the mug of coffee on the counter that Magnus had already poured for him; completely black, just the way he liked it, and he takes a grateful sip.

"Mornin', beautiful. Is that my shirt?" Magnus asks him, cocking an eyebrow.

"Um, kinda. Your fish ruined mine."

"I knew there was a reason I got him. That's kinda hot."

Smiling at the compliment, Sindre allows Magnus's arm to circle around his waist, pulling him close, and he reaches up to give him a quick peck on the lips, careful not to jostle his coffee.

"You won't think that for long. You owe me, Køhler. It was one of my nice shirts."

Magnus smirks. "How much? It might just be worth the price of seeing you in it."

Sindre rolls his eyes. "I highly doubt that."

"Well, I don't."

Sindre responds with setting his mug aside, his arms going around his shoulders. Really, he's half-dressed, the idea of working right now is abysmal, and it was their anniversary. They might as well celebrate it. He's glad that Magnus is so open with what he likes; it makes pushing his buttons that much easier.

"You might as well enjoy it while it lasts, then." Sindre murmurs against his jawline, guiding Magnus's hands to the buttons on his shirt.

"I have to admit; as hot as it is, I think you might just look better without it."

"Oh, really?"

Regretting the fact that Sindre knew how to play him too well, it's just as sweet to begin unbuttoning his shirt, with Sindre's kisses on his neck steadily going lower.


	9. Because I love You

**DenNor.**

 **Prompt: "Will you ever understand? I did it because I love you!"**

 **Note: Set sometime after the Treaty of Kiel.**

It was strange, to finally be given the chance to see the one who still tormented his thoughts, a scenario that he had endlessly played through many times, but he had never expected it to be quite like this. When they hadn't spoken in years, years that he hadn't bothered to count, Denmark's endless letters used to stoke the fire, their unread words easier to bear than what reading them would take.

Norway had returned to his room from an exhausting, boring meeting, one where he knew he and his country was only given the pretense of having any control, any importance, fully expecting to collapse into bed, only to find a drunk Dane waiting for him, already speaking to him before he even had the chance to shut the door.

Even now, he's wondering why it took him this long to break down. But apparently a bottle of vodka, empty now yet still clutched in his hand, was enough to drive him over the edge and to him, and he doesn't dare ask how he got past the guards; though he vaguely suspects that there may have been violence involved, judging from the bloody cuts and scrapes on his knuckles, and he's already dreading the Swede's words once he finds out that Denmark had attacked his men. If there was any way to explain how he got through the window, still open and bringing in drifts of freezing air, well… The Dane had a way with climbing trees, a thought that takes him back to a time that he simply thinks of as 'before', when they were still young. Together.

But he's never been able to stop him from doing what he wants, and ignoring him hadn't worked out.

"Let me explain."

The desperation in Denmark's voice tugs at the part of him that is still soft with hope, that wants to listen and be comforted, the part of him that is hopelessly, inexplicably intertwined with him.

But the part of him that remembers everything, in his heart and in his mind, keeping him awake at night, is stronger.

"You can't explain betrayal."

"You never listen, do you? Will you ever understand? I did it because I love you!"

He shakes his head, the indignation present in Denmark's voice igniting his own, allowing him to ignore any pull the words have on his heart, and he bites back.

"What is there to listen to, except for your drunken lies? My country was signed away, like a cheap prostitute, and you didn't even waste your breath with warning me beforehand, and you're wasting it now. You should leave. Before I call the guards."

"You wouldn't."

But the stoniness in Norway's eyes assures him that he would, if pushed to it. But he's come this far, and he is not giving up as easily as Norway would hope; going as far as begging on his knees. Pathetic.

"Please, just… Please. I'm begging you to listen. If there was ever a part of me that didn't try as hard as I fucking could, to fight, to change what happened, then hate me, as much as you need to. But goddammit, did I try. I just want the chance to explain. I just want to see you."

"Well? Has this changed anything yet? Lessened your guilt? Because this has not helped me. Not at all."

"I'm sorry. I tried to talk to you, for years, but you never answered my letters."

"There was nothing more that you could say."

"Really? Did you even bother reading them?"

The truth in Denmark's words sends the ache of guilt coursing through him.

"No, I didn't. But the time for that was already over. It wouldn't have fixed anything. Any of this."

"Maybe not. But do you know how that feels? To be ignored? What happened, hurt. All of us. And don't forget Islánd. Or have you already?"

"Don't you dare bring him up. You know that I would be with him, right now, if there were any way I could."

"Why not?"

"Need I remind you that it was your government that negotiated him into remaining in your possession? He wouldn't have understood why I had to leave. Even if I had tried to explain it."

"I couldn't have stopped them, Nor. I've taken care of him, just like when we were together. I can tell you, all about him and how he's doing, if you just let me stay. And when I leave, I can tell him that you're okay, and not feel like I'm lying through my teeth." His voice softens. "He misses you."

Norway searches his face, trying to find a reason to say no, to prevent this. He know he's being bribed, but he is just tired. Tired of the anger, the frustration of trying to hate someone he loves because of the hurt that he can bring.

And he wants to hear about him.

"Fine. You have the night, however long it may be. To say your peace. To make me understand, why I still care. If I even should." Reaching behind him, he flicks the lock on the door. It wouldn't help if they knew Denmark was in here, but he suspected that the Swede still had a heart hidden somewhere.

It's clear that Denmark had expected much worse, and much less time; the relief on his face is palpable.

"Thank you-"

"Don't make me regret this already, you insufferable Dane."

It was surprisingly easy. It felt natural, to talk with him, finally falling silent when it was late and there was not any more words left to say, except for the ones that mattered most. It was easy to give in to the past, letting him hold him in his arms, and it was easy to pretend that it would last longer than one night.

Until the morning comes, the only thing left to remember that he was even there being a letter, left by the Dane; yet it was obviously in the messy script of a child. Iceland.

Needless to say, he didn't burn it.


	10. Another chance

**DenNor.**

 **Prompt: "I would give up so much, to have another chance with you."**

Magnus's hand hovers indecisively over the name he has saved in his phone, although he knows his number by heart. Questioning if it is worth putting himself through this, when it wouldn't bring him back, or change anything.

But he wants to pretend. It doesn't always feel like he is wasting his time. He swears, that it feels like Sindre really is listening, somehow, somewhere. And it felt wrong. To not try his best, to not take the chance.

He presses it. Right now, he knew that it would start ringing, going unanswered in the drawer he kept it safe in, at home. He kept it charged, so he could call. When he couldn't sleep, he would go through the photos Sindre had saved on it, smiling through the blur of tears at the ones he remembered. Most of the photos are of the three of them, together. He wonders about the lack of other pictures. Like Sindre's life had began and ended with them.

Once, he had found Eírikur with Sindre's phone. He had tried to hide it, as if he was ashamed of missing him, afraid of showing any weakness. But Magnus had stopped him. He had just held him, and let him cry until he couldn't anymore. Wishing that he could take away his pain, even as his own chest felt like it was being ripped apart with hurt. It was the only word to describe it. That everything, even just the act of making himself get up in the morning and still being alive, hurt.

He knew that Sindre wouldn't approve of it, not completely. He would tell him to stop reminiscing, move on, _live._

Yet Magnus had kept everything. Sindre's clothes were gathering dust in the closet, their drawers. All he had, useless or not, was kept. Everything. His books remained on the bookshelf, although Magnus would take them out. Not to read. Just looking, and remembering.

Sindre had left it all to them, all his belongings, any money he had saved. Magnus could still remember wondering why Sindre had made a will, even as he had numbly accepted it, knowing that he would need it for Eírikur. Sindre was young. He had not expected it, any more than they had.

But then again, Sindre had known what could happen at any moment, because it had already happened to him, through his parents. He didn't know how it was possible-still didn't know how-for someone to pass in the same way their parents did. It wasn't raining. He didn't drive recklessly. He wasn't drunk, or speeding.

It had simply happened.

The cold, mechanical ringing falls silent, signaling for him to leave a message, and he begins to speak.

"Hey, Sindre. Hope you're okay. I just… Wanted to call. You couldn't be here today, so I wanted to tell you about it. So you wouldn't miss it."

He takes a shaky breath. It always began like this. Holding back the tears.

"You should be proud of Eírikur. He graduated today, with a degree in musical arts. Did what he's always loved. You know how he's always wanted to. He looked up to you, for everything."

He doesn't say how hard it was, to keep himself together, to keep him together. Answering Eírikur's calls to find him in tears, crying that he can't do it, he's not strong enough. Not without him.

"Do you remember when he was younger? He would always beg to play your violin, as awful as it sounded when he did. Just so he could be like you. Though the thing was damn near as big as he was. Don't worry. He's good at playing it now, even as good as you."

He laughs to himself at the memory, bittersweet. He would find them together, Sindre trying to teach him how to hold it correctly, Eírikur simply not understanding but wanting to, just as much. Only wanting to impress his big brother.

"I know, I know. You would be calling me an idiot, at this point. I know that you can't answer me. But I hope that you can hear me. I need you to hear me. Wherever you are."

He could imagine it, that indefinable 'after', sometimes. Or tried to, as much as someone who is still alive, still hoping, can.

He had talked about it with Sindre, before. Everyone has to decide how they feel about it, at one point in their lives. And so he did it with him.

All Sindre had said, was that everyone died. There was no point in worrying about what came after.

It was a waste of time.

But Magnus wanted more. Even if it was just so he could imagine Sindre there.

It would be soft with rain, sweet with a wind that did not sting. No more harshness. Bitterness. Pain.

It would be kind.

Rather it was true or not, it was what he chose to believe in. Life was cruel enough, and living without the hope of something waiting to take away the pain was hell. He wanted, with all his heart, for Sindre to be there. Not gone. Not dead.

Just waiting.

"I would give up so much, you know. To have another chance with you." His voice chokes, and he ignores the confused stare of a woman passing by, undoubtedly attending the graduation of her own child, or children, and he wonders if she knows what she can lose. "I would give up everything. If I could see you, even one more time…"

He breaks off, trying to keep himself together. He couldn't fall apart. Not now.

"I have to go now. He's waiting." He waves to Eírikur, once he sees him appear. His silvery hair, similar to Sindre's, stands out amongst the sea of graduation gowns. "I promised to take him somewhere nice to celebrate, like you would want us to. Try to be happy. Keep going."

Magnus uses his sleeve to wipe away any trace of tears, getting ready. To be strong. To smile. Just for him.

He doesn't say goodbye. He had said it then, and it really had been his last, final goodbye. He regrets it, more than anything he has ever done.

He says the words that he wished he had said that night, before he ends the call with a decisive click.

 _I love you._


	11. Please

**DenNor.**

 **Prompt: "Stay alive for me, please."**

 **TW, for anyone who may need it: Mentions of attempted suicide.**

Through the dull, otherworldly atmosphere of hospital rooms and unconsciousness, Sindre had sensed a hovering, insistent presence. One that refused to fade away and leave like the others. Expressed in hushed tones with the nurses and doctors that flittered in and out of the room like clockwork, until it was deemed that he should be allowed to rest; funny, for someone who had been unconscious for most of it. Occasionally, he hears the rustle of a page being turned, although he knew that it is just a pretense. He wouldn't be able to focus. Not after this.

Yet Magnus was still here. Even after Eírikur had been ushered away, unconvinced by the assuring words and overbearing yet well-meaning Tino, but finally giving in when Berwald had stepped in with a few words.

Sindre ignores the wave of nausea that rises as he sits up, waiting for the room to stop spinning before he dares to speak.

"Why are you still here?"

Sindre's voice rasps out, strained and painful from the tubing they had inserted down his throat to pump his stomach. He had said it so quietly that he wasn't sure he would even hear him, but as soon as his voice broke the air, Magnus had looked up from where he sat beside the bed, gingerly grabbing his hand, careful not to touch the IV in the back of his hand.

"I'm here, okay? You're okay. You're not alone." Magnus says, softly, and it doesn't sound right for him to be so quiet, so worried. A wave of guilt floods through him. But it's shallow. The true feeling of guilt, of fear, couldn't set in until it fully sank in what he could have lost.

"I'm okay-" Sindre breaks off when a coughing fit starts, and he gratefully accepts a small paper cup of water that Magnus hands to him, which soothes his raw throat. "I'm okay with being alone."

Magnus shakes his head, in denial. No one is.

"That's bullshit, so don't you dare give me that, Sindre. I know you better than that."

Yet even as Magnus speaks, his words harsh but well-intentioned, he feels an uncomfortable rush of disquiet. Did he really know him? He knew that it was the person you would never expect. Sure, he was quiet, aloof. Sometimes, he would zone out, seemingly distant. But not _this._

"Is that why you did this? Because you felt alone?" Magnus questions, his quiet shock evident in his eyes, in the firm set of his jaw.

"I… I don't know why." Sindre whispers, unable to look him in the eyes.

It's true, that he doesn't, not really. It couldn't be reduced down to a few words, or simple explanations. Not even the diagnosis, clinical and cold.

Depression.

It was so much more than that.

Thoughts and unnamed feelings that built up and up until they were crushing him from the inside out, until the only word that he could see or hear was _escape._ And he had tried to find it in a bottle of pills.

But it had been a mirage, bitter and false. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hazily remembered Magnus half-begging, half-cursing him to stay.

 _Stay alive for me. Please._

He remembered the flashing lights that still blinded him through his closed eyelids, the sickening feeling of being lifted up and into the harsh light of the ambulance before darkness overtook him.

Yet he was still here, still alive. He doesn't know how to explain any of it, and he wants to go back to being alone, where he doesn't have to speak.

"You shouldn't be here. Go home."

Magnus shakes his head, his expression grim.

"No can do. I'm not leaving you. Not for anything."

"Please. Just go. Eírikur left. They left. Why are you still here?"

"You could have died!" He bursts out, immediately softening his voice. "You could have, okay? And I don't know when, or how to tell you this, but… Please. Stay alive. For Eírikur. For me. For all of us. But if we're not enough, you have to stay alive for yourself. You're worth it."

He breaks off, overwhelmed.

"Don't make me lose you."


	12. Insanity

**Belarus and Russia. Only platonic siblings, don't worry.**

 **Prompt: Insanity**

Insanity is picking someone up while they are down, desperate to stay that way. Yet it was a role that Natalya willingly plays; she always has.

It has been this way since they were children. Once anything gets to Ivan, she is the only one who can drag him back from the edge of his mind, something that even Yeketerina couldn't do. Although she was strong, stronger than both of them; she had practically raised them both when she was only sixteen, a feat that still astonishes Natalya. But it had made her soft with them. She rarely, if ever, berated Ivan. When she did, it was gentle, ineffective. Which left the task to Natalya.

It was a role Natalya had immediately slipped into when she had heard Yeketerina's voice, strange and distant over the phone, quietly telling her that Ivan was drinking again. He wouldn't answer her texts, or calls. She was certain that Yao had broken up with him, yet again, and she was afraid that she would only make it worse if she tried to comfort him.

Before Natalya had even hung up, after she had promised to check on him, she was already putting on her mental armor, preparing to deal with it, with him.

She spent the entire car ride over, thinking about all the times she had done this; too many times to remember them all. It was frustrating.

Ivan was too soft. He had always cared too much about others and their thoughts, something that Natalya strongly disagreed with; although she knew the sting of a taunt, truthful or not. He took any slight, real or imagined, straight to his heart. It only made their breakups, however many there were, that much worse.

Natalya kept a spare house key of her own, knowing that Ivan had a paranoid habit of moving his own into odd places. She knew he wouldn't be in a state to answer the door, if he even wanted to. Before she goes in, she takes a deep breath, trying to prepare herself.

When she opens the door, it takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness, and for the sun spots to fade from her eyes. She scrunches her nose at the overwhelming scent of alcohol. Already, she can see down the hall and into the kitchen, several days worth of unclean dishes stacked on the counter. She takes a tentative step inside, cursing as she nearly slips on a bottle, cursing again when she sees a prone form in the middle of the living room. The coffee table had been shoved against the sofa to make room for where he had apparently decided to pass out on the floor. Several empty bottles of vodka litter the floor around him, one still clutched in hand, along with countless beer cans.

Natalya walks over, careful not to trip, crouching down and placing a hand on Ivan's back, gently shaking him.

"Wake up, wake up…"

Her voice elicits a groan from him, but he doesn't stir, although he is awake./p

She huffs. He is _not_ going to ignore her.

"Get up," She growls as she stands up, giving Ivan a gentle nudge with the toe of her boot. "You're worrying Yeketerina. You should be ashamed."

Ivan finally speaks, his voice still groggy with sleep. "She worries too much."

"And half the time, it is because of you and your behavior."

"Tell her not to worry. I'm okay."

"Is that so? When was the last time you bathed? Or ate a decent meal?"

"It's pointless. He left me, again." He sighs, deeply. "I'm so pathetic."

"You're not pathetic."

"Lies, sister." He mumbles into the floor. "Lying doesn't become you."

"And self-pity doesn't exactly suit you," Natalya spits out, an angry flush tainting her pale skin. "Why do you do this to yourself? He is gone, and your useless wallowing won't bring him back. Not until you clean yourself up."

"See? Even you agree. I'm useless."

Natalya makes a noise of frustration, resisting the urge to tear her hair out. "Stop twisting my words. Now get up, before I make you."

"I'd like to see you try."

A slight grin tugs at her lips. Any teasing was a sign that he was beginning to slowly thaw, and return to the big brother she knew, and loved. She rolls up her sleeves in preparation, ready to roll him right out of his wallowing pity.

Grabbing onto his shirt, she manages to get him an inch off the ground, before her arms give in to the weight.

"Lay off the vodka, brother."

"And you ask me to be nice. Did our dear, sweet sister not raise you right?"

He's joking. They were both endlessly grateful and proud of her, for all she did.

"If she didn't raise me right, then a pack of animals must have raised you, not-brother."

She grabs his hand to help him, and his smile reminds her of why she even bothered.

She spent the rest of the morning with him, righting all of the things he had neglected. She opened the curtains, sending in rays of light that made it feel like a home once more. She made him count the beer cans, and bottles, reminding him of how purely excessive it was, before they were thrown away. She even watered the plants that were clearly placed there by Yao, although they had already started to wither in his absence. They binged reruns of his favorite show, and before she left, she made him promise to call if he needed anything.

Anything at all.

If it was insane to protect him when he clearly didn't want to protect himself, well…

It was worth it.


	13. Cookies

**NethRo.**

 **Anri=Belgium**

 **Luca=Luxembourg**

 **Ned=Netherlands**

 **Vlad=Romania (This was the most common fandom name for him, so I used it for now.)**

 **Prompt: Cookies**

Vlad couldn't deny it; the Netherlands, his boyfriend's home country, was stunningly beautiful, from the flowing canals, distinctive architecture, extensive windmills, to the bright flower fields that seemed to stretch on forever; although he would always prefer his own country. As interesting as it all was, his head hurt; it felt like they had seen it all in the one day.

And as much as Vlad had wanted to fully enjoy his time together with Ned, he simply couldn't. They had been together, albeit long-distance, for four years. Vlad wanted to propose to him on the day of their anniversary-which was why he was even visiting him for the week-yet every second brought them closer to the day's passing, and his chance being lost. Ned had invited, or simply submitted to, his overbearing siblings, Anri and Luca, tagging along for the day, which complicated things. His siblings were energetic, talkative, and unbelievably different from Ned; they dragged them everywhere, from clothing shops to the national parks, even to the national museum, although Ned complained it was a waste of time and money, which Luca strongly disagreed with, leading to an argument that Anri finally settled by threatening to disown them both if they didn't grow up.

It felt like they had gone everywhere except for where Vlad wanted to go; the Kuekenhof, Europe's largest flower garden, filled with meticulously kept flowers, mostly tulips, which he knew were Ned's favorite flower. It would be a beautiful place to propose.

Yet every time Vlad tried to bring it up, he was cut off by their incessant chatter, and before he knew it, the day was over, the sun dripping over the horizon in beautiful shades of yellow and red, until the sky has faded to a deep blue, the streetlights flicking on in response. They had just finished an evening bike ride through a local park, at Anri's insistence that they take advantage of the good weather.

Vlad was about to just give up on the idea completely, until he finally gets his chance, hardly daring to believe it, when Ned excuses himself for a phone call, while they wait on a nearby bench. Rude. But it gives him the chance to bring it up; finally. He had only wanted to ask Anri, thinking her more trustworthy with a secret; but he's stuck between her and Luca on the bench, and he doesn't want to risk waiting any longer.

He taps her shoulder, leaning over. "Anri. You have to help me."

Anri gasps, his hushed tone striking her the wrong way. "With what? Are you in trouble?"

"No, nothing like that!" Vlad falters, lowering his voice. "I… I wanted to propose to Ned. Today."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Anri practically shrieks, smiling excitedly. "We would have helped you, you know."

"Well, what should I do now? It's already late, but I really wanted to do it on our anniversary."

Anri seems to ponder it for a minute, her lips pursed as she surveys the area they're in. A delighted grin lights her face as her gaze settles on a tiny storefront across the street from the park, obviously some kind of specialty bakery shop, judging from the interior, visible through the large glass windows on the front, and the little awning over the front, the bakery's name stenciled on it in creamy script.

"Go in there; he loves their cookies."

"Isn't that… kinda lame?" Vlad replies, grimacing. A bakery?

"No." Anri and Luca say in unison, sharing a glance, and he decides to trust their opinion; they were his sister and brother, after all.

Anri continues speaking, growing more animated with excitement. "It will give him even more good memories! Every year, you could buy some more to celebrate and-"

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Anri," Luca finally speaks, ignoring the pout she gives him. "But it is a good idea."

"Wouldn't he like somewhere more romantic? Maybe I should just wait…" Vlad knows that he is just procrastinating, but the butterflies in his stomach are telling him otherwise.

"He won't care," Anri says, exasperation creeping into her voice. "He loves you too much to care about anything else, the big softie. Now go get him, before I drag him over and make you do it right here."

Vlad nods in agreement, but he doesn't have to do anything yet; Ned cuts his phone call short, walking back over to where they sat, opening his mouth to speak.

But before he can get a word out, Anri and Luca have leaped up, already walking off.

"We're going home now! Bye. We won't wait up," Anri calls out behind her shoulder with a wink, as Luca blows a kiss. They link arms, talking animatedly, before they turn the corner, around the edge of a building, and duck out of sight.

"Weird." Ned mutters, watching them leave.

"Well, you know them better than I do," Vlad shrugs, smiling nervously. "They're your siblings."

Ned gives him a sharp glance, too shrewd for his own good, but he doesn't push it, thankfully. "We should go, too."

Vlad shakes his head, pointing to the bakery. "Wait, uh… Can we go in here for a second? Anri told me how good they are, and I've really wanted to try their desserts."

"It's late."

"Like you haven't stayed up late before, Ned. Live a little." Vlad huffs in mock exasperation, trying to hide his nervousness.

"I just don't see how this is important."

"Shush. Just wait." Vlad grabs his hand, tugging him along.

As soon as they walk in, they are greeted with the sugary scent of waffle cones, cakes, and candy, coating the air in its enticing allure. Rows of glass cases, displaying their colorful products, line one wall; the other one is filled with small tables and chairs. At the least, it is clean and cozily decorated, and completely empty, save for the older woman working there, who greets them with a pleasant smile and a polite greeting.

"Wait here, and get us a table." He asks him, walking over to the counter, leaving him to find one.

Vlad orders a box of their gevulde koek, cookies filled with almond paste, although he stumbles over the pronunciation. The woman ringing him up gives him an understanding smile, and he leans over, whispering.

"Can we get some privacy, for a minute? I, uh, want to propose-"

"Oh, don't ruin the surprise!" The woman shushes him, giving him a thumbs up and immediately going into the tiny kitchen, the doorway hidden behind a dividing curtain. He's relieved; he's anxious enough without anyone watching.

Vlad knows that he shouldn't be so nervous; they've been together for four years, now. But what if he doesn't want to marry him? What if he says no?

But he's already bought the ring, and if he doesn't do it now, he either has to wait for the next anniversary, a whole, long year, or choose a less important date to propose.

He gulps, trying to prepare himself. He walks over, dropping the box of cookies on the table.

"Stand up."

Ned gives him a sharp stare, reminding him of how strangely stubborn he was. "Why?"

"Just do it, please? For me?"

Sarcastically, Ned rolls his eyes, but complies nonetheless.

With a nervous gulp, refusing to look at him, Vlad pulls out the small velvet box that had been burning in his pocket all day, awkwardly crouching down in front of him on one knee.

"What are you doing?"

Vlad takes a deep breath, finally looking up, seeing a sight he thought he would never see; a blush creeping onto Ned's face as he begins to understand.

Ned's shyness gives Vlad a burst of confidence, and he finally says the words that he had been practicing for weeks.

"Marry me? Please?"

It takes him a second, but all Ned can manage is a nod, clearly choked up; it feels more than right to stand up and pull him into a tight hug; although the moment is interrupted, when Anri and Luca burst in the door.

"Finally, you're getting married! I never thought I'd see this day, my little Ned." Anri wipes away a happy tear, throwing her arms around the both of them. "We watched it all!"

Ned pulls away, glaring at Anri and Luca. "Wait, were you two really in on this? I swear-"

"Yeah, for like, twenty minutes. Your dorky boyfriend-sorry, fiancée, was a nervous wreck." Luca cuts in, reaching up to ruffle Ned's hair, although Ned knocks his arm away.

"Don't get so ruffled, dear. We're just so happy for you." Anri replies, gesturing for them to all sit as she opens up the box of cookies. "Now, I hope you still like these as much as you used to; they're why he finally proposed."

"Anri, was this your idea?" Ned crosses his arms, but he's smiling.

"Maybe. Vlad's other one didn't work out." Anri ignores Vlad's offended protests. "Just enjoy it."

He does. But not as much as when they finally leave the bakery, parting ways with Anri and Luca, and they finally share a sweet kiss under the moonlight.


	14. Drive

**Norway and Iceland.**

 **Sindre=Norway**

 **Eírikur=Iceland**

 **Magnus, Dan=Denmark**

 **Prompt: Drive**

The quiet, wonderful vastness of the ocean had a way of soothing Eírikur. It never changed, and it never left. It had always surrounded his own country in its protective embrace, and it surrounded the wake of his vision now, peacefully.

Being this high up, this close to the edge of the cliff, always made him feel wonderfully small, against the dull blue of the ocean, always churning, and blending into the grey of the overcast sky. Eírikur breathes in the sharp scent of the ocean, somehow cleansing to him.

The drive up had been mostly pleasant; they both liked having the windows rolled down, the cold sting of the wind numbing his skin, and the ruffle of the wind through his hair awakening a dull wonder that nature, however mundane, seemed to bring out in him.

Although Sindre drove the sharp turns with abandon, Eírikur's eyes closing as they approached each turn, his stomach churning; that wasn't pleasant. But Sindre always managed to get them there safely.

They never planned these little excursions. It just happened, when they both needed a few hours to escape; this time, it was from a stifling meeting, one they decided was worth skipping. It had been easy enough for Sindre to bribe Magnus into providing a distraction, letting them slip out, unnoticed.

It was, if anything, a shared ritual. They didn't always talk, allowing a silence that they didn't feel the need to change take over. Or they would talk about things that didn't quite matter; books, music, any little thought. Sindre's dry remarks about the other nations never failed to bring a laugh.

Yet it always made Eírikur melancholic, for a past that he knew, yet wasn't discussed, for reasons that were kept from him and the light of day. Something that he felt should change.

"Sindre?"

"Hmm?"

"Tell me a story."

"You haven't asked for one of those in a few centuries." Sindre wants to ask what changed, now, but he didn't dare risk it. Yet when he meets Eírikur's steady gaze, its apparent that he wouldn't be able to put him off, even if he wanted to. "What do you want to know?"

"Why did you leave?"

Sindre remains silent, for a moment; letting out a sigh that betrayed all his years finally letting Eírikur know that he had heard him, and it brought a tightness to his chest.

"If you're anything like me, I assume that you've read all about our history, as wrong as the accounts are."

Eírikur looks away, guilty. "I have. It didn't make sense. I mean, I want to know why you left the way you did."

"I guess that you do deserve an explanation."

"I'd rather hear the truth, than an explanation. Magnus already told me his side of it, so don't lie."

"He told you?" A hint of exasperation crept into Sindre's normally smooth voice. "When?"

"Duh," Eírikur says with a sarcastic roll of his eyes, a habit of his own that Sindre wished he had never let him pick up. "He told me, when you… Left. I wouldn't know a thing, otherwise. You seem to forget that I was older than a child, in those days, despite my appearance. I remember."

Sindre frowns, but he lets it go. It was not worth arguing about; he supposes that he should have told him some things, sooner. Although his own recollection of when he made him promise, right before he left, was still easy to recall, it could have slipped the Dane's memory; his mind hadn't been in a good state, at the time.

Then again, Magnus did have a way of going behind his back, though, when he thought he was doing the right thing. And he can accept that he could have handled it better, himself.

"I wasn't planning on lying, by the way." Sindre reminds Eírikur, finding it important to watch his expression.

"I know." Eírikur simply nods, his face simply passive.

Sindre's gaze turns back to rest on the ocean, and Eírikur takes it as a sign that he should do the same.

It was how Sindre preferred to tell a story; no distractions, no eye contact. Sindre had a way of captivating a listener without it.

 _A vase crashed against the wall in a shatter. Followed by a bottle, then a painting; anything that would loudly break, anything in an attempt to appease the roaring anger that drove Magnus into a drunken rage. It had been this way since the Treaty had been signed; they had been given a two day grace period. It was a short enough time to say goodbye, and Sindre had already said it to both of them, although Eírikur couldn't, or simply wouldn't, understand._

 _At first, Magnus had acted like he could withstand it. But now that the time was over, and it was finally happening... Magnus didn't know how to handle it._

 _Sindre doesn't stop him, simply watching, and letting him get it all out. Let him regret it in the morning. In his distraction, he missed the pair of violet eyes peeping from behind a door, witnessing everything._

 _Magnus finally stops, when there is almost nothing left to break, and he just seems tired. Of everything. He collapses into a chair that had managed to escape the path of his destruction, wracked with sobs that Sindre ignores, knowing he is causing them just as easily as he could take them away. It hadn't been Sindre's choice, not at all. But it wee easier to pretend that it wee. It hurt too much to think about how it really was._

 _Sindre had already let him known how he felt, and that was all he could have done, in his mind._

 _"Take care of him."_

 _And those had been his final words to Magnus, for quite some time. He had left then, refusing to look back. He hadn't cried; he had always been the strong one. He wasn't going to let him see any weakness._

 _But that was the issue; Eírikur had never seen the weakness, either._

 _To him, it had just been cold._

"Does that help you understand?"

Eírikur nods, and Sindre places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Don't blame him. It hurt him more than anyone should have to endure, and not all of it was his fault."

"I know, I know… Will you tell me something else?"

Sindre shakes his head. "It's cold out."

"It's never bothered you before. Please, just answer one more question and we'll leave."

"Fine. What is it?"

"Well… I've never known how you found me. I remember some of it, but it doesn't always make sense. I guess it's bothered me. Not really knowing."

Sindre's shoulders relax. This was a memory that was easy to recall. Relive.

 _Sindre felt like he could finally breathe, when he was alone. Away from Denmark, Sweden, and Finland. As much as they meant to him, it felt like he had been stitched up tight around them. Yet when he was free from their influence, the way it was before they found him, it gave him back something he had lost along the way, something that made him feel whole again; independence. Solitude._

 _The sea, in all its glory, had always belonged to both him and Denmark, something that he knew Sweden would never truly understand. When that had been their preferred method of exploration, he had caught him getting sick in the night too many times to remember them all._

 _Despite his and Denmark's shared love of the sea, it was his own desire for the escape of the sea that led him to new land, and to a child, one who had been raised by the land, with wild hair and eyes that gleamed with fear._

 _Lost in thought, Sindre had nearly missed him, hidden amongst the bushes, were it not for the starkness of his hair against his pale skin, and the warning growl he gave when he tried to approach him._

 _But he knew not to force it, and make the same mistake Denmark had, when he and Sweden had found him. Denmark's careless attempt to capture him had earned him a broken wrist and a tiring chase thug lasted for a few days, finally ending when Sindre had finally grown hungry-and bored-enough to give in._

 _Sindre backed away, out if sight, then quickly scurrying up a nearby tree; if he walked past him, he could be down in seconds to grab him._

 _It was clear that the child didn't quite know what to do; he took a tentative step out, followed by another, until he was creeping along at a steady pace, completely unaware that he was about to walk right past him and into his capture._

"You were clever, and quick; but as soon as I had you, you weren't quite strong enough to break free, as much as you tried."

"I'm not weak-"

"I'm not insulting you. You were a child, then. A petulant one, at that."

"Well, what happened next?"

Sindre scoffs. "As if I could ever forget what happened next. I managed to bring you to what was our home, in those days. Dan had the misfortune of trying to hug you. You almost bit his finger off; he still has a scar from it, you know."

"You refused to eat for a week. I don't know if you remember, but Berwald is the one who finally managed to coax you out, although I believe it was Tino's idea. I seem to remember a trail of crumbs." Sindre finally breaks his gaze, dropping his chin down to look at his hands, tightly folded on his lap, as a small smile breaks out at the memory.

As soon as Eírikur had trusted them, he had allowed himself to be shy, instead of fierce. A shyness that had finally faded, the Dane's antics, his own methods more subdued, drawing him out.

"I hope you remember the rest." Although Sindre wouldn't say it, those were the years that always came to mind when he thought of happiness, and all it meant. He had been, in those years. Before it was lost, for reasons that he would never understand. Yet the memories always brought a certain bitter sweetness to his heart. "You had a certain fondness for Dan's stories, in those days. And his blatant exaggeration."

"Like yours were that much better."

"True. They were mostly lore. But mine were a part of my country, and my people. His stories were about his own brave exploits. False ones, at that."

"Well, I don't blame him. Stories are an escape from reality. He still told me them. Even after everyone left."

"I don't blame him, either."

"None of us should."

He rarely hugged him, but right now, it felt right to lean against his shoulder.

Eírikur had always desired independence. Something to call his own. But they had each left their marks, in their own ways. Every country that had come into contact with his, had tried to change him. Shape him into something new. Something that wasn't quite him. And now, he didn't always know what to do with it. What he should be. What he even meant.

But right now, there was one mark that didn't quite bother him.

Not anymore.

Eírikur reached out to grab Sindre's hand. He doesn't say it, knowing he'll understand the words he doesn't know how to say.

 _Thank you._


	15. Solitude

**DenNor.**

 **Prompt: Solitude.**

Solitude, to Sindre, was found in someone he had known for centuries, and it was found along with all the memories that came with truly knowing someone for that long.

To him, solitude didn't belong to a place, nor did it belong to the state of being alone; no, no matter how many miles he placed between himself and the rest of the world, it never felt quite the same as the way he felt when he was with Magnus.

Solitude should make you feel safe, happy, real; and that was exactly how only Magnus could make him feel. No matter where they were.

But out here, wrapped in isolating layers of forest that stretched for miles, the only way back being a simple, tread-worn path that they had both memorized years ago, when they had both decided that it was time to have a place, a small, and worn but cozy cabin of their own, for when they simply needed an escape from it all.. It was even better.

Time was theirs; they could read, quietly. Make love by the fireplace. Get drunk on wine and know that they were more than just lovers; they were best friends, in the best way possible. And that was a quality that could never be worn down, or replaced.

And above all, Magnus had let him known that solitude doesn't have to be lonely.

No, not at all lonely, with his lips against his and his body even closer. Away from the weight of a passing judgment, away from everyone. That was where they found each other.

With his hands on his hips, guiding him to his loving touch.

It's impossible to feel anything but happy, in a way that felt real, simply real, and Magnus's sweet words whispered in his ear, remind him of it.

Even when they fall into a soft silence, one where others would try to fill it with words and lies, things that didn't really matter; they refuse to fill it with anything but the fact that they have each other. That they are hopelessly, hopefully, lost in each other. That they have always been this way.

It was perfect. Just the two of them.

Together.


	16. Misfortune

**Belarus and Ukraine.**

 **Prompt: Misfortune**

Reminiscing about the past with someone is easier with a strong drink-preferably vodka-in hand. Otherwise, it was simply impossible to get a word out of Yeketerina, who preferred to leave the past behind her, in her pure hope that the memories would leave her alone and grow still in her heart, in the hope that her wishful thinking was enough to overcome anything.

Natalya herself knew that remembering wouldn't change anything. If she so much as cast a single glance into the past, it frightened her, enough that she couldn't blame her reluctance. Sometimes, in the quiet, she wondered how they might be, now, if life had been kinder to them. How different they would be. And the thought is enough to tighten her chest and make her feel faint at the very uselessness of it.

But anniversaries of their shared past, particularly one such as this, wore her down. Until it would feel wrong to keep going without something, anything to commemorate it. Whether it was visiting her sister, or giving herself a day to lie down in a dark apartment and pretend that she didn't exist, it would be something.

Natalya had almost backed out, but as soon as she had heard Yeketerina's voice, bright and cheerful… She finally broke down and accepted it for what it will be.

Yeketerina must have heard the tone in her own voice, agreeing way too quickly; yet she would always indulge Natalya's rare need for company, and it was nice to have a day to themselves, an unusual occurrence between their responsibilities.

If anything, Yekerterina's home made Natalya feel both wistful and happy, as different as it was from her own cold, impersonal apartment that she kept back in Minsk. It was an older farmhouse, with strong wood floors and gentle colors, always kept clean. A track played on her old fashioned record player, one that sounded soft and happy, even as it spoke of heartbreak. For someone who didn't dwell on yesterdays sorrows, Yeketerina was old-fashioned, both in sense and her taste in decor.

And so the day was spent like the ones in their past, with a focus on baking, tending to the multitude of farm animals that Yeketerina was too fond of to let go of, and a bit of drinking to go along with it. Natalya was a strong drinker, by anyone's standards; but not by theirs. She hadn't quite meant to drink so much, yet Yeketerina could drink any man under the table, and it was easier to keep drinking at her pace rather than her own, as it numbed her senses, and making the day pass with relative ease and quickness.

Already, the pale blue edges of the sky were being dusted with one last show from the setting sun, golden colors painting the sky in beautiful colors. They had retired to her porch after a light dinner, making a seat out of the porch steps.

With a wince, Natalya regards the now-empty bottle as she sets it down, then turning her gaze towards her sister from where she sat beside her.

"Dear, sweet, Yeketerina…" Natalya began, immediately losing track of what she was about to say, settling instead on her usual bluntness. "May I speak, honestly?"

"Of course."

"Why is life so cruel to us?" She asks, with a blank-faced openness. Out of all that she questioned, this was the one that she had never come close to understanding.

"Natalya… That is a question more suited for philosophers, rather than your tired, old sister." Yeketerina replies, with a firm shake of her head. "I don't know."

"Don't put yourself down. You're smart, and I'm asking you because I want to know what you think."

"I know, but is it a good idea to talk about such sad things, on a day like this?" Yeketerina bit her lip in worry, Natalya noticing the few stray wrinkles at the edges of her eyes, for one so young.

"No, it isn't. But when have any of us been known for making good choices?"

"Oh, don't be so negative." Yekerterina murmurs, yet relents. "If it will make you feel better, we can speak."

"Thank you for putting up with me. It is just… On days like this, I worry, so much."

"About Ivan?"

"Yes. I worry about him, and what he does, all alone. He can be so delicate."

Yekerterina nods in agreement. She worried about him, too, as pointless as it was. He wouldn't allow them to help. Ivan had his own particular brand of coping, one that wasn't healthy at all. But neither of them blamed him.

Misfortune had always followed Ivan like a cloud, and so too it rained on them, falling upon them in great waves until they were all drowning.

But there was a point where they all had learned how to swim, no matter what it took from them, no matter who they had to hurt, so long as they didn't give in. If they ever sank, it would be together.

Yeketerina, kind and warm, whose soft demeanor belied a soul that would never break.

Ivan, whose exterior, inexplicably soft yet cold, harsh then gentle, hid a heart that loved too strongly, that had broken too much.

And then there was herself. She knew that she fell victim to self-introspection at the oddest moments, in the middle of chaos, more than she would prefer to let on. It had bound her tight and into a rigid form, one that rarely bled, rarely broke in two; yet when she finally shattered, her blood ran hotter than fire.

Natalya didn't know how Yeketerina could stand to pick up all those shattered pieces, and put them back together, and still have anything left for herself.

Yet their bond together was stronger than blood, stronger than them.

"Sister… How are you so strong?"

Natalya was curious, although she already knew the answer. Because Yeketerina had to be. For them.

"Well, we've never had much of a choice in it, have we?" Yeketerina smiles, and it is so bright, so tender; so unlike Ivan's threadbare smile, one that could finally tear, and there was no amount of thread that could sew it back together. And then there was her own, rarely shown for fear of what it meant.

"No, we haven't."

It was a strange sensation, to feel the first prick of tears in her eyes; Natalya disliked crying. It was useless. It was weak.

"Please, Natalya… You should find more to make you happy. You deserve to be happy."

"Should I dare to be happy? It feels like we have never been allowed so much as a moment of peace in our lives."

Yeketerina sighed in a way that finally betrayed some of her weariness, pondering for a few moments before she finally answered, her usual gentleness working its way back into her tone.

"Natalya, even if you just tried, it would make me happy. It would mean that I did my best, and that it was enough for you."

Natalya remains silent, and Yeketerina takes her chance to keep speaking.

"We shouldn't allow these things to hurt us. Not anymore. And has today not been good? Terrible things happened on this day, yet we made it past them, and here we are." She gestured to the sky, now faded to a dusky blue that spoke of the coming night, to everything. "And we will always have each other, on this day. Like we did, all these years ago."

Yeketerina folded Natalya into a warm hug, stroking her hair. "I know you can't see it now, but you are so strong, so beautiful. You always have been."

Natalya felt selfish, to finally let herself cry, when life had never let Yeketerina be weak.

But it was cleansing. It was needed.

Because Yeketerina was the only one who made her feel safe and loved, enough to cry. It was how it had always been.

Natalya's head came to rest upon her houlder, their hands clasped together. Her own soft and smooth, Yeketerina's hands calloused.

And in that moment, she felt safe, both from the past, and what could come tomorrow.


	17. What is Right

**GerIta.**

 **Prompt: "The church of lies can't tell me what is right."**

 **Note: Set sometime around when the Carnival of Venice was banned near the end of the Italian Renaissance?**

Their love had started out with a simple brush of the hands, a gaze that lingered far too long to be proper; and it started out with the notion that he was one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen.

One look was enough to send Ludwig's thoughts to a place that had not been inhabited for some time, simply because there was no woman-not even the most beautiful temptress-who could inhabit it, and few men could ever measure up; this one surpassed them all.

Behind the pure white mask, deceptively simple, burned eyes that spoke of a warmth, the redness of full lips that spoke of passion.

It was just as surprising as the way he had taken his hand, and guided him through the busy streets of Venice, to his bed, quickly forgiving his lack of experience; but that should have been expected. Venice, although she had many surprises, would always be the one to hold a tempted hand, guiding it to luxury.

But it quickly grew beyond that, like a flame that had spun out of control, until the thought of life without him in it seemed like abject misery, a thought that Feliciano shared.

If anything had made Ludwig fall hopelessly in love with him, it was the knowledge that Feliciano was not merely a creature of passion; he was kind, almost to the point of naivety. His hope burned brighter than the sun, was splattered in countless colors on canvases that were too small to express such things. No, nothing would ever quite match up to him and the force of how much he loved. He had rejected his right as the heir to a family fortune in the name of love, art, and passion.

It was felt, expressed, in every kiss, every touch. In every 'I love you', said as loudly as he dared.

But like all things, even the brightest flame could come to an end. His mask lay abandoned, forgotten in a drawer; everything that had come to be during that time, all that it was, was coming to an end by laws passed by those who enjoyed the same comforts, yet clutched at the power to control who could enjoy them. It was no longer celebrated, in the name of purity. Those who were deemed immoral or unclean were forced into hiding, where they could be dragged out by even the smallest accusation of guilt.

Ludwig wondered if they, too, would be forced to part. Every day, the threat grew larger, looming over them until it felt like they were about to be devoured.

They both felt the stress of it, evident in the tenseness they both lived in through the day, in the newfound frantic intensity of lovemaking at night, as if each time could be their last, and it was possible that soon, there would be one last time. For everything. Until he felt the need to speak the words that refused to leave his mind.

"And if we are caught? Would you still love me?"

And Feliciano responded with a somber expression, one that didn't suit him at all in its pure intensity.

The church of lies can't tell me what is right."

And it is true.

Feliciano's lips brushed against his, one last time.


	18. That Christmas Spirit

**Sufin.**

 **Prompt: Cookies**

If home is where the heart is, then right here is where Tino wants to be, surrounded by his family, on Christmas Eve.

The scent of fresh-baked cookies wafts through the air, filling the kitchen; it is a scent that Tino can only describe as love, home, and family. Cookies are best shared, after all. Especially with those you care about the most.

Gathering at the home he shared with Berwald and their son, Peter, was a yearly tradition, one that Tino relished; the past month had been spent decorating, primping, and shopping. The past week alone had been full of grocery shopping, in preparation for cooking. As exhausting as it all was, he couldn't deny that he was proud of his wouldn't hesitate to say that their home looked like it could grace the cover of one of the national magazines.

And soon enough, their already full house would be filled even more; Berwald's brother, Magnus, would arrive, along with his husband, and his brother. He had prepared cookies in advance, and Berwald was currently occupying their kitchen table with a huge mound of tape, colorful wrapping paper, and last-minute presents in various stages of preparation.

And whether it's Tino's jubilation that holiday cheer always gives him, or if it's the sweet look of concentration on Berwald's face as he works, pulling him into a kiss that lasted, wonderfully, felt like the perfect way to celebrate.


	19. One Last Dance

**Nyo!PruCan**

 **Prompt: "I'm hoping you'll give me this one last dance."**

As much as Marie tried to not be bitter on a night as important as this, she still felt the broiling waves of dull, resounding jealousy. Her sister, Amelie, was simply stunning, unbelievably affable, and attracting all of the attention, from both princesses and princes alike. Even without all of her personality working in her favor, Amelie's dress is a brilliant, cerulean blue, one that is maddeningly bright and eye-catching.

This was the one night of the year where all free royalty mingled, and so far, Marie had not been danced with, not even once. Although Amelie had enjoyed her fair share of dances; ranging from a prince who came from a far-off kingdom, his hair shining like dark water, to a shorter woman with sharp eyes and an ever sharper tongue-Marie had to hide her own amusement when she had stormed off from Amelie, apparently infuriated at something she had said-and all the others in between, too many to remember them all.

Marie tried to hide her pout, her gaze following her sister as she was passed from arm to arm, ever graceful. Normally, it wouldn't bother Marie. She preferred her own company to that of others. But the night was nearly over; it had passed with frightening quickness, and as much as her father had attempted to bring her interest to some of the men involved, forcing several awkward interactions that barely lasted more than a minute, none of them caught her eye, nor did she catch their interest; it was obvious to her, that she would be forced through another year of this hopeless waiting, and wishing.

Yet there was one who seemed to show some actual interest, although she can't tell if it is well-intentioned or merely judgemental; across the ballroom, lounging in a quiet corner, resided a woman with flowing hair that shone like moonlight, and rich burgundy eyes that had barely moved from her for the entire evening. She appeared to be accompanied by two women, one tall and blonde, and the other, nicely tanned and voloptous. Occasionally, her raucous laughter rang out along with theirs, bringing out Marie's own desire for company to the front of her mind.

Yet Marie couldn't help but feel threatened by the woman's attention, in her own uncertainty, and so she chose to ignore it, throwing a few glances in her direction when she saw the opportunity to do so without notice. The woman seemed to be close to her two companions, tossing back drinks with ease; her name appeared to be Greta, by the way the other two were telling her to slow down with the drinking. Apparently, Greta didn't quite find her interesting enough to come speak with her, but she had certainly stared at her for long enough; either way, it was a bit annoying.

Marie is snapped out of her stare when it was announced that there would be one last dance; one last chance, to find someone. Desperately, Marie casts one last, longing look about the room, wishing that someone, anyone would approach her. Much to her surprise, Greta is finally approaching her with a wolfish grin, immediately bringing her own nervousness to a boil as she comes to stand before her.

"I'm hoping you'll give me this one last dance. Especially with one as beautiful as you." Greta murmurs, her throaty voice surprising her, and with a bow and a flourish, presenting her with her gloved hand, as a man would.

Marie hesitates, nervously grinning. But what else can she do, save for graciously accepting it? Although her stomach turns nervous knots inside of her. She can't dance. At all. What was she thinking?

She squeaks out a half-hearted yes, letting her take her hand; unfortunately, she leads her to the center of the room, where there would be the most exposure and notice, only adding to her nervousness.

"I really can't dance." Marie leans closer, whispering, and to her surprise, Greta reaches up to brush the hair from where it had fallen across her face, a supportive smile playing on her mouth.

"Don't worry. I'll lead."

"If you say so…"

But Marie soon finds that she doesn't have to worry; Greta's hand rests on the small of her back, the other keeping a firm hold on her own as her own rests on Greta's shoulder, guiding her into each turn and glide across the floor, keeping her upright and making her feel graceful, as light as a feather, as they dance to the gentle notes of classical music.

Somehow, Marie isn't quite so jealous of her sister any more.

Shyly, she finally dares to rest her head against the crook of Greta's neck, completely missing the way the woman smiles in response, earning a few jeering reactions from her companions as they watched.

Finally, Marie tilts her head back to look up at her, curious. "I've never seen you before. What has brought you here, this time?"

"Honestly? I came with my sister. She tags along after that one like a lost puppy," Greta whispers loudly, cutting her eyes to a smiling woman with brown hair, stunning in the vibrant, ruffled red dress she wore, dancing in the arms of a tall, stern-faced blonde woman, her own black dress much more subdued. "I'm barely even a princess, actually; the formality is just pretentious. I was just here for the drinks, yet It seems that I have finally found someone who makes it worth the bother."

With a blush, Marie realizes that she means her, quickly ducking to hide her face. Oh.

Too soon, the music ends, the last somber notes trailing off in echoes. Oddly enough, Marie finds herself wishing that their dance had lasted longer, that she had been able to speak more. If only.

Greta withdraws from her, and before Marie can protest, she is pressing her lips to the back of her hand, before stalking off.

"Until we meet again, sweetheart," Greta calls behind her, and Marie finds herself hoping that they will meet again. Soon.


	20. Running After You

**PruAus.**

 **Prompt: "There's no place you can hide, because I'm running after you."**

As soon as Roderick saw Gilbert, he knew, down in his very soul, that this was a mistake.

He never should have agreed to meeting with him again, after he had already-obviously poorly-burned the bridge between them with an explosive breakup. He should have maintained his own distance, at the expense of anything they could have. Yet he can't help but ask himself if there was even anything left salvaging from their broken relationship.

But as Roderick takes him in, his eyes lingering on his face, the familiar rush of excitement, longing, and affection for this man and all his flaws, rushes through him and as much as he tries to stifle the feelings… He can't force himself to hate him, nor can he truly fault him. Not completely.

If it was anyone's fault, it was his own. For being weak enough to let him in. For starting this whole damned relationship in the first place, inexplicably drawn in by Gilbert's crudeness, how untamed he was. It only took one afternoon, spent late in their university lecture room long after everyone else had abandoned it, spending too much time talking, and he was already his, like some besotted fool. Roderick was impressed with him, from the start, and just as irritated. Gilbert always showed up late to the lectures, then wrote the most beautiful poems. Yet he showed up shoddily dressed and wearing yesterday's clothes, rarely participated, and he was impossibly rude; not cruel, just unafraid of speaking his mind.

When compared, he knew that they didn't quite fit together, but if opposites attract, they were like lightning.

Yet lightning always strikes, and when Roderick was forced to realize that Gilbert was already with someone else…

It hurt beyond words. Because Roderick never would have taken Gilbert for being capable of doing that; it was at odds with the rest of his knowledge of him. And he didn't understand how he could do it to him, when Gilbert claimed he had a special place in his heart, a notion that he now strongly doubted.

Regrettably, Roderick hadn't been able to bring himself to block Gilbert's number, feeling an unbearable attachment to their old texts, and unable to ignore the desperation in the new ones he sent; which led him here, to a little coffee shop, thankfully quiet and none too close to either of their homes. He didn't think that he would be capable of it, but he didn't quite trust himself.

And now, all of his conflicting emotions are keeping him rooted in place, until Gilbert's pulled out the chair and sat across from him, his trademark grin barely concealing his nervousness as he accepts the coffee he had already ordered.

Like it had always been, Gilbert takes the first step, when it was obvious that Roderick wasn't going to speak first.

"Thank you, for giving me the chance to explain." Gilbert began, immediately getting cut off by Roderick's irritated voice.

"Stop it. Just… Stop. I'm already regretting agreeing to this."

Gilbert sighed, remaining silent for a moment before he finally lashed out. "Can we please, please just talk without your passive aggressive comments?"

"I'm sorry." He murmured, then retracting his words. Why should he be? "Actually, I'm not. I have every right to be pissed."

"You do. And you've let me know that at every fucking turn. I know, okay?" Gilbert slumps to the table, running his hands through his hair. "Fuck, I'm not good at this."

"Neither am I. I don't know how I feel. Or how I should feel, about your betrayal."

"Look, I know I'm a fuck-up, and a liar, and God knows what else I am. But if there's one thing I've ever been good at, it's falling in love with you."

When he remains silent, refusing to dignify his words with a response, Gilbert's tone becomes desperate, pleading./p

"Please, you can't hide, because if there's anyone who will run after you, its me."

Roderick doesn't know if it is his words, or how simply brokenhearted Gilbert looks, after all he's done, yet it sets him off.

"Were you that good at it? Really? You cheated on me, and you have the audacity to pretend to be the heartbroken romantic? And when have I ever asked you to chase after me?"

"No, you haven't, but-"

"Gilbert."

"I… I'm so fucking sorry, okay? I never, not once, wanted it to end like this. I never meant to hurt you like… Like I did."

"Maybe that is the difference, between us. I would never do that to you. I would never do it to anyone, actually."

"I know you wouldn't. You've always been better than me. Right?"

"Guilt-tripping me isn't going to work, Gilbert."

"Look, I have to go, this was obviously a mistake." Roderick grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair as he stood up, planning on leaving before Gilbert said another word. Yet something breaks inside him when he feels an insistent tugging on his sleeve, pulling him in tight and crushing him against his chest.

The familiar feel of Gilbert's chest beneath his fingers as he clenches the fabric is too good, too sturdy. Too bittersweet.

"I… I can't do this." Roderick mutters, unable to look up, knowing that if he does, he will be his.

"Roddy, wait-"

Abruptly, Roderich pushes Gilbert away, already turning away and walking faster, and faster, ignoring the pathetic way he called out after him. As the tears fill his eyes, threatening to spill over.

He doesn't look back.

It just isn't worth it.


	21. Calm

**HongIce.**

 **Prompt: Relaxation**

Calmness is his name, whispered with a tender love; drifting smoke held in a hand stained with nicotine, the steady gaze of one who is used to watching, and waiting, holding his own across the vibrancy of the narrows streets of Hong Kong.

And for reasons unnamed, unknown, Leon is all the word has come to mean to him, from that day on.

In Eírikur's heart, calm is the boy with the soul of water, still and powerful; peace is held in the abyss of the dark water reflected in his eyes; his own reflection staring back.

Yet his relaxation calms as it killed, the warmth from his lips kissing down his neck, the slickness of his skin against his; the serenity of his presence soothing the burning fire that smolders inside him.

Before him, he was not calm, not at all, the blood coursing through him, scorching his veins like the lick of a flame, a constant beating like a thousand drums that played through him.

Yet when the words that mean the most-I love you-are whispered in the curve or his neck, across his skin, it becomes clear.

He is the scorch of flame and he the water, languid and utterly free.

And if it is love, it is good for his soul.


	22. Be Perfect

**UsUk**

 **Prompt: "Sometimes, you wish you could turn to stone and be perfect always."**

Apparently there was a new low to be reached, judging by the hoard of coffee cups stashed on Arthur's desk, leaving stains on the dark wood that he normally kept pristine; endless reams of crumpled paper, overflowing the waste basket; all the little things that shouted that all is not well.

Arthur valued order above all, and if there was any worrying sign as to his mental state, it was the messy disarray of his room. Along with the fact that he hadn't bothered with texting, or even acknowledging Alfred, his boyfriend, in two weeks. All his calls went straight to voicemail, his texts unanswered. Leading him to decide, hey, maybe he should check on him.

But after Alfred had let himself in, and finding him dead asleep on his desk, the remnants of an all-nighter scattered across his desk-reminiscent of their college days-it was obvious that he should have checked on him sooner.

And now, after he's woken Arthur up and has asked him if he's okay, and he's unable to explain how much he had been struggling.

How frustrating it is when words refuse to come; they are there, already heavy in the mind and heart, aching to come out into the world; but when held in a hand that simply doesn't trust itself to use the words wisely, or to make them matter, it became torture; spending minutes on forcing a single word out, hours on even just half a page.

It is all that Arthur wants to say, to explain, yet his frustration locks them away, and all that comes out is a defensive mutter.

"I have deadlines, okay?"

Alfred shakes his head, knowing that it really didn't matter. His own job was nice enough to support them both, if needed.

Truthfully, Arthur didn't have to do it, and deadlines had never seemed to bother him before; he seemed to perform better under pressure. Yet Alfred understood it, in a way. It was Arthur's source of pride, his joy; it was all he aspired to be, and he can imagine what the misery of being unable can feel like.

But Arthur was obviously falling apart, and he regrets not checking on him sooner.

"Is that really it? Deadlines?"

"You weren't supposed to be here today."

Alfred frowns at the defensive set in Arthur's shoulders, as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, gathering even more papers to toss, filled with scribbled words. He had always valued tradition, preferring the clean and simple feel of pen and paper over that of a keyboard.

"Am I not allowed to be worried when you don't call or text, for like, two weeks?"

"You can, and I'm sorry. I just can't write!" He says, breaking off.

"I just miss it when I was good enough to do it, keep going. I can't seem to get a word out these days. That's why I didn't call. I thought that it might help with it." Arthur says, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

"Dude, when's the last time you went outside?"

"Yesterday." Arthur replies too quickly to be telling the truth, unable to look at him.

"Honestly."

"Give or take a week."

"That long? Really, tell me what's going on. I know it's more than what you're saying."

"I don't know… Just, I feel that I've lost my purpose, like I can't do it. This used to be so damned easy for me, and now I can't write anything."

"Okay, I get it. Sometimes you wish you could turn to stone and be perfect always. But that's just not how life works. I'll always love you. No matter how many words you do or don't write, or even if you quit it altogether. You know I don't care. You're the only thing I care about."

"Is that supposed to drag me out of this slump?" Arthur asks, with raised brows; always the pessimistic one.

"If I have to drag you out of this, kicking and screaming. It better be."

When Arthur finally smiles, like the sun breaking through the clouds, Alfred knows that he has got him back. Arthur even allows him to embrace him, before patiently waiting for him to get dressed; managing to look presentable in a sweater and jeans, at least, and the stubble from not shaving, oddly enough, suited him.

The gentle autumn breeze lifted Arthur's spirits as he took the first step outside, deeply breathing in the woodsy scent of smoke and fresh air, his hand held in his.

If there ever was a muse, an inspiration…

Alfred was it.


	23. Their History

**BelaLiech. This was written for APHrarepairweek2017, for day 4; history.**

The history between Natalya and Erika unfurled like flowers opening up to the kiss of the sun; desiring the warmth upon them; and wasn't that what Natalya had always wanted? Happiness? Love?

Words that encompass all that Erika is. She loves. She is happy, and she will give it away to anyone who asked, anyone who knew what good they could do with it. Natalya isn't always sure that she knows what to do with it. She asks herself, if there will ever be enough love and happiness to banish the darkness from her mind. There are always the teasing, manipulative whispers that take root in her mind. Telling her that she is not good enough. Demanding her to obey. That they are too different-Erika, too kind, her too harsh-to ever work.

Sweetness and harshness are two tastes that will never mix.

Erika's history is unmuddied, so clear and strong; so unlike her own, which is filled with the sharpness of pain, the cruelty of burdens already borne, yet their weight still firmly resting upon her heart.

Yet Erika didn't care about those things, and she made sure that Natalya knew it, felt it. Holding her tightly when the tears came. Always the first to tell her how much she loved her, as often as she liked; they were the first words she said every morning, every night. Along with every sudden, spontaneous kiss as Erika's heart swelled with the simple taste of a joyful love.

If opposites attract, then Natalya is the taste of the icy winter, cold and strong, and Erika the sweetness of the sun, the caress of a summer breeze. Come together as one.

It makes Natalya feel like, despite all her tragedy, she can still be worthy of love.

So her love for Erika came returned, deep and real, strong enough to make the demons in her mind whimper and hide.

And the taste of their history on her mouth, in her mind, is more than enough to banish the fear from her heart, mind, and soul.


	24. Winter Coffee

**BelaLiech. This was written for APHrarepairweek2017, day 7; four seasons.**

The best place to escape the winter's chill is in a coffee shop, cozy and warm; preferably accompanied by a good book, although the only thing accompanying Erika is her textbooks, copious pages of notes, and a cup of coffee. This is where she takes refuge from the stress of college; always popping in for a few hours when she could.

Everyday, as soon as she walks in, deeply breathing in the rich scent of coffee and spice, muffins and sugar; it brings a sense of warmth and home to her, comforting and calming her instantly, no matter what. She always picks the little table by the window, where she could watch the sky, people, anything she wants.

It was easy to lose track of time that way. Just like now. Taking note of the time, Erika realizes that she really should stop lingering. Her next class starts in ten minutes, and it will take her at least five minutes to cross the campus. She starts making the motions of leaving, picking up her textbooks in one arm, her coffee cup in the other hand and standing up; immediately crashing into a woman who had been walking past, who she hadn't seen coming.

Erika gasps as the liquid splashes across the cream color of the woman's shirt, soaking through and staining it with the muddy color of creamy coffee. She's thankful for lingering now; the coffee was only lukewarm.

"Oh god, I'm sorry!" Erika exclaimed, feeling the first prick of tears sting her eyes at her own clumsiness. She hadn't mean to, not at all. Steeling herself, she raised her gaze to meet an indecipherable stare and a beautiful face, red lips slightly curled in disdain as the woman regarded her now-ruined blouse.

Ah. Erika recognized her now as her classmate in her history course, Natalya. Beautiful, hard to read, yet she still seemed sweet, if a bit eccentric. Erika might just have a crush on her; she was always awkward around her as is, and now...

"I promise I'll pay to have it cleaned or replaced. Oh, I'm so so sorry." Already, Erika is mentally tallying the cost; when you're a broke college student, money is tight, and the shirt was obviously an expensive name brand. She can already hear what her brother has to say if she has to borrow money from him, again. Grabbing a handful of napkins from the table dispenser and ignoring Natalya's protests that it is okay, she begins dabbing at the front, as useless at it is.

Natalya, still a bit stunned, might have accepted her offer of paying for it; for anyone else, she knows that she would have. Yet... Erika was cute. Really cute. Natalya shakes off her feelings; she was, secretly, a bit shy, but she's been wanting to talk to Erika for a while, and now-as awkward as it is-is a good chance. She had noticed the way Erika had stared at times, and knowing enough about her to recognize that she wasn't cruel enough to be judging her, she hoped that she liked her.

"Don't worry about it. Your name is Erika, right?" Ignoring the questioning look that Erika gave her, Natalya digs a stray piece of paper from her purse-which had thankfully escaped being splashed-along with a pen, and she quickly scribbles down her number in her neat handwriting before handing it to her, giving her a small, encouraging smile as Erika hesitates before accepting it and reading.

"Here. If you want to make it up."

"What's this?" Erika pursed her lips, before understanding dawns on her, although she really can't believe it.

"It's my number."

"Oh, uh-what for?"

"A date. If you want to." Natalya doesn't always exude shyness, but from the way she ducked her chin down, suddenly not so forward, it is obvious.

"That... Oh, that would be really nice." Erika, while still mortified, even dares to joke, pleased when she elicits a small smile from Natalya. "I promise to not spill anything next time!"

"I would ask you to walk with me to class but I have to go home and change my shirt. Call me later, okay?" Natalya finally makes her exit, grinning as soon as she turned away, where Erika wouldn't see; ever stunning and graceful in her walk as she left, even in a coffee-stained shirt.

Erika regathered her books, hiding her embarrassed-yet joyous-smile behind her hand and hoping that the blush will fade from her face soon.

Oh, she was smitten.


	25. Picnics In Spring

**IceXNyo!Bela. Written for APHrarepairweek2017, day 7; four seasons.**

Picnics in the spring are always a good idea; after the sweet embrace of spring has warmed the air, and thawed the ground from the icy grip of frost, and flowers have already begun to emerge from the earth, desperately reaching towards the sunlight.

Eírikur thought that it was a pretty view, at least, from their preferred picnicking spot; on the large hill that overlooked the campus. And it is much better than anything that could be found on campus, providing a good excuse to study for their finals, and to be able to talk freely.

Yet from Nikolai's strange insistence that they must enjoy the kind weather with picnics while it lasted, Eírikur suspected that it was an excuse to spend more time with him. But did he really like him? He suspected, something; in the quiet moments, after they accidentally brushed hands, or when he thought about how he spent all his time-and thoughts-on, and with, him. That there was something there.

It was confusing, only made worse by Nikolai's reluctance to admit any emotion; no matter how forward his own questions were.

"Is this a date?" Eírikur asked, his voice suddenly breaking the comfortable silence that usually lingered between them.

Nikolai responded with only a noncommittal noise that could mean either yes or no; typical.

"If I didn't know better, I would think so." Eírikur's gaze lingered, studying his face for a reaction; hoping for one.

As expected, Nikolai remains aloof, cocking an eyebrow and offering a half-hearted comment. "Do you?"

"Well, are we… More than friends?" Eírikur stifles a remark at the other's crypticness, and knowing that he wouldn't get a straightforward reply either way, posing a question instead.

"We already are," Never forward, Nikolai kissed his cheek; a sudden display of affection that stunned him.

Shaking off his surprise, Eírikur shrugs, even as it sends excitement coursing through him; even daring to take hold of Nikolai's hand; shyly glancing up to see the small uptick at the corner of his mouth, in the rare way he smiled. Eírikur leaned back against him, feeling his heartbeat increase in response, mirroring his own.

And just as the blossoms on the trees bloomed, so did their love; slowly, in the promise of new beginnings.


	26. One Year of Love

**Nyo!NedRo. Written for APHrarepairweek2017, day 7; four seasons.**

One year can teach many things.

It had taught Anca how to say 'I love you', and to learn how to get along with Lotte's two inexplicably cheerful siblings; soon to be part of her new family, as the ring on her finger-promising a beautiful wedding, just a few months away-reminds her, although she feels like they already are her family. It had taught her to let go of the past, and her own secret insecurities, enough to know that she had found the love of her life.

One year was all it took for Anca to fall in love with Lotte. Four seasons, filled with too many memories to count, although she cherished them all fully; from spring flowers to decorate Lotte's flowing hair and a picture to remember the occasion, to the heat of summer and the scent of sunscreen and a warm, lingering kiss; to the chill of fall and a shared bed, cozy with blankets. All the way to winter and soft kisses in the candlelight.

The first tidings of spring had given Anca the realization that she liked Lotte, desperately wanted her. The heat of summer, to finally work up enough courage to kiss her. The creeping fall allowed her to realize that they could share a bed together, and that no one could stop them. And to the dead of winter, now, to realize that she loved her, irrevocably.

It had taken her one long, amazing year to fall hopelessly in love with the woman who had captivated her heart, from the beginning.

But as she memorizes Lotte's face in the soft, glowing light; from the graceful curve of her jaw, to the loose strands of blonde hair that lay across her forehead, still basking in the memory of their lovemaking... Anca knows.

It was worth the wait.


	27. Fall Baking

**SeyLiech. Written for APHrarepairweek2017, day 7; four seasons.**

Erika loved the fall for more than just a few reasons. She loved the crisp air, the wonderful colors of the fall leaves, and the seasonal burst of joy it always gave her. Trick-or-treating still held the same sense of allure it did when she was younger, although she is seventeen now; yet she still always opted to go as a princess, or a fairy, always something light and whimsical.

Another highlight of fall was baking for their high school's yearly bake sale, to commemorate the season; the event brought in dozens upon dozens of cookies, cakes, and other confections, filling up more than a few table's worth. Her best friend, Carinne, has always been her baking partner; it was how they had quickly become best friends in the first place. Their other mutual friends, Eírikur and Leon, only brought them closer.

Yet she felt more than close to Carinne, although Erika worried that she was the only one who felt that way. She didn't quite know what exactly had caused it; whether it was Carinne's voice, somehow throaty and soft, musical, the beautiful tone of her smooth skin which only added to her beauty, or the way her laughter made her felt; happy, like she was floating on air.

Yet gathering in the cozy kitchen of Carinne's house to bake with her was still a treat, as nervous as Erika felt. She found it hard to pay attention to her own work, throwing a few sneaky glances at Carinne in between rolls of the cookie dough. They had decided to split the work; Carinne would prepare the cakes, while Erika would bake the cookies.

Erika wanted to focus on her own task, yet her gaze, inevitably, drew back to Carrine, cute in a pink apron that was draped over her clothes, her usually long hair tied back in a frizzy bun that was messy, yet cute. Her lips were curved into a content smile as she hummed along to the music she had playing on the radio, gently stirring the cake batter. Erika couldn't help but notice the way the dot of orange cream frosting, which she had prepared for the cake, stood out against Carinne's skin.

Oh, she wanted to kiss her. But she couldn't, just couldn't. A nervous tug pulled at her stomach. What if Carinne didnt like her in that way? She could play it off... But she knew that she was a bad liar. And she couldn't imagine herself being brave enough to bring it up.

While Erika was lost in worry, Carinne's arm enfolded her small waist and pulled her close, quickly pressing her warm lips to her check before leaning away to look down at her.

"You've been over there, worrying your cute little head off. What's wrong?"

"You noticed?" Erika's voice came out high-pitched, a habit she had when she was nervous, and a blush overtook her face at how easy she apparently was to read. She thought that she had been hiding it well. But Carinne had just called her cute. And she had kissed her. It was on the cheek, but it wasn't something that friends just did. Was it?

"I've known you for too long to not notice when you're worried, Erika." Carinne rolled her eyes in a good-natured way, and it reminded her. Carinne was her best friend. Even if she didn't feel the same way about her, Carrine would never be cruel about it. It gave Erika a sudden burst of confidence; if she never tried, she would never know.

"Carinne... Do you like me?" Surprisingly, Erika's voice came out steady, and soft; far more confident than she felt.

Now it was Carinne's turn to blush, yet she left her words simply stated. "Oh, more than that."

Erika practically felt her heart leap in joy; the sudden urge to kiss Carinne again overwhelming her; so she did, a sticky, sugary sweet kiss that tasted of cookies.

"Is it okay if I did that?" Erika felt shy again, afraid that she had just moved too fast.

"Better than okay. Now, help me with these cakes, will you?"

"Of course." Erika finally remembered to wipe the dot of frosting away from Carinne's face, smiling along with her. And she felt better than okay, too.


	28. Just For Fun

**NorFin.**

 **Prompt: "We can get a little crazy. Just for fun."**

The dull ache that pounded in his head finally dragged Sindre from unconsciousness, thrusting him back into the reality of his mistake.

He had enjoyed a half-second of peace of sleepy bliss before the events of the night before came crashing back into his mind, when he finally felt the warmth of a sleeping body curved against his; shame immediately overwhelming his confusion.

The intensity of the thought overwhelmed him. He couldn't believe that he had slept with him. Even as Tino was still beside him.

Oh, god. He can still remember the cocky way Tino had whispered the words in his ear, his hand rubbing over his thigh temptingly.

" _We can get a little crazy_. _Just for fun_."

And so Sindre had taken him home.

Last night… The very thought of it left a bad taste in his mouth. What had he been thinking? Except he hadn't thought at all, too distracted by Tino's lusty whispers to pay attention to his own inner sense.

No, he shouldn't have let it happen. Sindre had used him as a rebound. He was newly single from his previous boyfriend, Magnus, and had been for two months. It still hurt. He had assumed that it would lessen with time, distractions, anything. Yet it hadn't.

What would Magnus think, if he found out?

No. Sindre had tried his best to block out his name, along with all the memories of their apparently failed relationship. Yet he failed miserably, being reminded every night of the emptiness of his own bed, every time he found a trace of his previous presence, anything of his that he had forgotten.

Fuck him. He doesn't want to care about him, not anymore. He had probably already moved on to the Dutch guy who he had claimed was only a good friend. If nothing else, it had been two months; they probably wouldn't get back together.

Yet even as Sindre hears the words in his own mind, saying that he doesn't care; he knows that they aren't true. Not completely. He misses him. He can't sleep right without him.

Which was what had led him to accept Tino's invitation to go drinking with him, figuring that it was a good enough way to distract himself, hoping to get tipsy, enjoy himself, and hopefully come home and be able to sleep.

Yet they had ended up doing a lot more than that.

The regret twists his stomach like a knife. Selfish. Stupid. He didn't even like alcohol that much. He hadn't been honest about his intentions. Not even with himself.

Well, even if nothing else… He can work with it.

Sindre grabs his phone from where it lay on the beside table, unlocking it and ignoring the conspicuous lack of texts. Pulling the camera app up, he reached up, making sure to get a good angle on himself and Tino; so it can clearly be seen that they are very naked, and very much in the same bed. He doesn't smile; it would be too suspicious.

Before he sent it, he checked it; it would work. He cringed inwardly as he opened the texts between himself and Magnus; his mind automatically picking over all the hateful words they had both carelessly used, like always.

Magnus still hadn't said a word to him since their last argument. And he hadn't bothered apologizing.

 _Had the best night of my life last night,_ Sindre captioned it; as soon as he sent it, he tossed his phone aside with abandon, not quite caring where it landed on the bed. He finally got up, his gaze taking in the ruffled sheets, Tino's messy hair from where he had ran his hands through it as they fucked with abandon, the messiness of their scattered clothes across the floor…

He could deal with it. Even if he hated it. If it hurt as he swallowed his pride.

He could.


	29. Under The Stars

**RusAme. Set sometime in the late 60s or early 70s.**

 **Prompt: Stars**

There was something in the stars, and the deep, unending beauty of the night sky that awakened things held deep within them. The mutual desire for a friend, someone who understands, along with their need for conversation.

Gathering in the tree house that stood tall and proud in Alfred's backyard, complete with a roofless stargazing platform to observe the night sky, had been a ritual since they were children. Alfred, the all-American child with blonde hair and blue eyes, and Ivan, the Russian child; it had taken one look from Alfred, after Ivan had moved in next door with his two sisters, to invite him to come play. He hadn't thought about it at all, about any differences between them. He only saw someone who could be his friend.

The time spent here was theirs, and it always had been. Even now, that they are in their last year of high school. They still lied down on the same wood floor of the treehouse, ingrained with many memories; hidden kisses that were kept from the judgment of the world around them, and the shared dreams of their future. Still gazed up at the same stars.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Alfred rose up from where he had been lying on his back, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at Ivan, curiosity reflected in his blue eyes.

"We're nearly adults, Alfred. Shouldn't we already know that?"

It was obvious, what Alfred wanted to be. Despite Alfred's usual jockish attire; worn jeans, and his trademark Letterman jacket, and his boyish good looks, he truly had the heart of a nerd. He excelled in both his science and math classes, far ahead of the rest of this class in both grades and knowledge about the subjects. He wanted to join NASA, do something that improved the world. He had missed the prime; reaching the moon. But Alfred knew there was still good that he could do.

Ivan had roughed through more than just a few hours of Alfred's rambling about the intricacies of space, life, and everything that caught Alfred's interests. He had heard about all of Alfred's passing obsessions, from the obsession with bugs when he was ten, to planes when he was twelve, and even more in between. But space had always been his true love.

And to Ivan, Alfred was handsome; far more than anyone else Ivan had seen, even as much as he rambled about the things that interested him; truthfully, it was interesting, even attractive. The way that Alfred's blue eyes lit up in excitement, desperate to share his love for knowledge.

"Hey, its what's on the inside that counts, right?" Alfred responded, cracking a smile.

"True. You are awfully childish."

"Rude, Ivan. Really, dude. I'm serious. What do you want to be? Not just do. That's all I ever hear, these days. Do this, do that, become successful and become tied down with a wife and two-point-five kids. The perfect family." Alfred made air quotations when he said 'perfect', his tone dripping with sarcasm. Alfred hated all the ideals that were forced upon them. "Who do you want to be?"

Ivan pondered the question, Alfred thankfully respecting his need to think in silence. Honestly, Ivan wanted to write, wanted to make someone, anyone, feel something.

Above all, Ivan wanted to matter; so far, he hadn't, not really. He existed, he didn't get in trouble, and he made good grades. That was it, the extension of his life into the world around him. He wanted more than just a quiet American life, although he understood why his older sister, Yeketerina, was so grateful to escape the harshness of their life back home, as much as they had to dodge sideways glances, and suddenly cold shoulders when anyone heard their heavy accents.

So he confessed. About what he wanted most. About how trapped he felt; a sentiment that Alfred readily agreed with. About the relentless bullying he faced everyday, all because of where he was born, his voice, the way he sometimes accidentally mixed in Russian for the more complicated English words when he couldn't remember them.

And when Ivan finally stopped speaking, suddenly tired from the openness; Alfred fully, and truly, looked at him; the real Alfred, the one that was rarely shown behind the anonymity of pretending to be complacent. He wasn't. He talked fast, and he wanted to live fast. He wanted to be free. But it was easier to hide it.

"Y'know, we can escape, you and me. Leave this all behind," Alfred raised an arm to the sky, gesturing to everything around them. Their small town, where every opportunity was a dead end into ending up like their parents before them, an open door that led into a cage before it slammed shut, trapping them here.

"Can we really do it?" It was tempting to Ivan, yet too vast, like space and the oceans of the world. Like everything that mattered too much, while it was treated like it didn't matter at all. It was simply there, an accepted part of life that was rarely known, appreciated. "Where could we go?"

"Ivan, we can do anything," Alfred grabbed Ivan's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze with his strong grip. "As long as we're together. We can go anywhere. Be anything we want."

"No matter what… Will you always be there?"

"You got it, Braginsky. I promise. You and me, together."

It was in that moment, that Ivan knew. Stars didn't belong to just the sky.

They belonged to them.


	30. Unworthy

**RusAme.**

 **Prompt: Not good enough**

We all break, eventually. It comes without warning, a sudden strike of thunder against the rushing waves of the sea. What has been kept inside, beaten into woeful submission, is made known; unlocked by the lashing of sorrow, the melancholy tinged dream of that which has already passed.

Ivan felt alone, even when he wasn't.

He could name what tormented him, even as he didn't know it; although loneliness is his old friend. It was the same hurt that had always accompanied him. The fear that time will tick away, meaningless. That he is unworthy of kindness. That he will never be good; all that is wanted. To be safe, comforted. To not be alone. To never be alone, no, never again.

But it was a useless wish. He had never had peace. None of them had. Turned against each other, the world, like dogs.

He had always been alone. A thousand empires could fall before him, cruelty deep in his heart; not good enough. He never would be.

Yet to Alfred, Ivan is more than the words that divide them, make them who they are. He knew how to handle his edges without getting cut, soothe what burned within. Turn the pages of their history together.

Still, it weighed heavily upon them, wore them down. From the pressure of pride in a country stained with crimson blood, heavy against his heart, his very being; cursed under the weight of a misplaced love. Both bound by the desire, the need to be perfect, to never falter. He was bound under the judgment of statesmen, but never the people; a king, never a God. A faded map stained in crimson is all they are. All they will ever be. Pride. His name on the hearts and minds of the world.

Ivan fell apart from the lies, the cold, callous desperation of pretending. That he could be more than what they are. The desperate wish, cold and soft upon his breath, that he could only be okay.

He yearned to be more than just blood and dust, ash and bone.

Yet only Alfred could banish the chill from his soul.

It is three in the morning, the mystical, unworldly time that reminds us how vast and empty the world is, how alone we are. Truly, deeply, alone. The time when what we fear the most comes alive. All Alfred can do is wait with him for it to pass, wait for the sobs to pass through his body; counting each one like he counts, his hopes, his good days, his smiles.

"I know it hurts."

 _Yes._ The word refuses to leave Ivan's throat. It hurt more than anything. But it is more than just hurt, a small word that hardly means a thing against what it truly is, and what it means for him. Broken dreams, a broken smile. A broken man. The brush of history lay bloody against his soul, leaving jagged edges against his mind.

There's nothing more that Alfred can say. Except for that for all that he was, all that he is, and all that he will ever be. Ivan is his. Always his. His love.

 _I will always love you._

His hands rest on his, trying to soothe him. But they're both stained with a blood of the soul, that will never wash away. By the morning, amidst the promise of a new day, this will leave. A sense of the mundane will return, as steeped in lies as it is. They can pretend that Ivan doesn't fall apart, when the silence has become deafening, and he is vulnerable. That he is okay; a soft word, yet it is one that can betray the truth.

But no matter how hard they try…

They will always burn together.


	31. Pretend

**SuFin.**

 **Prompt: "I want to kiss you a thousand times before undressing you and kissing every bit of your flesh a thousand more times."**

All that Tino had come to dread was finally happening.

In these final days of what he has known, the notes of pleasantry, revelry and excitement course through the air in anticipation of what is to come; the final commencement of a ceremony, one that has been wrought for centuries, passing from descendant to descendant; father to son. The making of a prince, into a king. Through eternal marriage, one that will last a lifetime.

Yet the events of each day, busy with preparation for such a happening, have barely reached past the fog of introspection and numbing dread that clouds Tino's mind. Already, he is tired of the formality, the falseness apparent; the weariness of pretending that he has a true place in the life of his love, save for their illicit embrace in the warmth of his bed.

Still, he yearns to be as lighthearted and carefree as he once was, when he was certain of his home here. But any joy he can possibly hope to feel, is kept at bay by how trapped he feels, how sickened he is at the prospect. Berwald, his love, will soon be betrothed to another. The woman, with a heart of ice and a mind to match it.

He had always known that this day would come, that as soon as he had become Berwald's lover, that there would be a day where he would be forced to step aside for one who is blessed under the law, the watchful, reproaching eye of tradition; concepts that are far from him and his understanding.

Yet, a prince still must become a king, regardless of what Tino wants. And what is a King without a Queen? It does not matter that Berwald does not desire a bride, for more reasons than one would think, than what could become known. No, they would never know. Despite Berwald's reassurances that he will do everything in his power to keep them together, Tino fears what will become of himself, once she has made her place in this kingdom. He knows that he belongs to Berwald, as he belongs to him; as they belong to each other. But in the world of influence and vice, politic and fear…

Anything can happen.

Each burning kiss can fizzle and fade, forced into a complicit silence; every touch newly quick and light, never lingering. Tino knows that he can be pushed to the side, and forgotten.

Already, Tino feels the burn of silent judgment from both commoners and royalty alike; ugly disdain kept well behind a veil of politeness. Along with each flicker of fear, felt deep within him, rushing through him at every whispered what if, before being smoothed over into that of quiet willfulness. As he shut his eyes, playing along; and he does not know if it is brave or merely foolish.

At the center, their love is pure, fulfilling. Yet there is an inherent imbalance between royalty and his own position, which is little more than that of a courtesan; although he has only shared Berwald's bed. Yet even the purest hope can fall; taint can creep in. Unannounced.

As Berwald's voice finally reaches him, when Tino finally snaps back into reality from the quiet contemplating of his mind; taking in Berwald's gaze from where he sat beside him, in his chambers, a home to him that he would soon be forced from. Berwald was always so concerned; too observant, for his own good.

"You are distant today."

"It is just.." Tino quietly began, his own need to hide, to pretend that his life will remain the same, cutting off his words at the source. "Nothing."

"Please, if you are unhappy, there must be something to make you happy. I promise it all."

But what is a promise? What can be promised, save for divine intervention to change what had already been set in place.

 _Promise to never leave me. Never let me go._

Burning wishes, if only they could be true. If only.

Yet, Tino's traitorous tongue instead took him down the path of neutral complacency; treading softly, always. He would never call what was to come happiness. This hidden love, soon to be rendered nearly invisible. Yet he can withstand it. He always has. He is powerless to fix it; and what has he but the ability to pretend that everything is all right; before it all goes wrong?

"What do I want? I want to kiss you a thousand times before undressing you and kissing every bit of your flesh a thousand more times." Tino brought himself to whisper against Berwald's neck, his light hands already moving to undress him; ignoring Berwald's half-hearted excuse that he has responsibilities; a hated word, the one that is taking him away from him. Yet his own touch still has the ability to silence any further delays.

"They can afford to wait."

When his flesh is bared, Tino's skillful kisses gracing his skin, Berwald can't help but agree.


End file.
